When You Run With Wolves
by Jedi Holmes
Summary: Moriarty never came back after that fateful Christmas and Sherlock Holmes was exiled to Eastern Europe to his death. His life is saved by an exceptional woman on the run. Adventures commence. The novel length chronicles of Sherlock Holmes and Natasha Romanoff. Sherlock post-season 3 AU. Age of Ultron and subsequent films AU (non-compliant).
1. Chapter 1

" _Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong."_

Sherlock Holmes was a murderer. Most would say a fitting end for a murderer was death. A life for a life. In fact, if Sherlock had to choose, he'd take death over being trapped in a cage.

Mycroft knew that, of course, hence the mission, aside from utilizing Sherlock's skills for the last time. Sherlock was grateful. If one could be grateful when sent out to be executed.

It was June. Just over five months after he'd left England. His mission had been complicated, intricate, and specific. Eastern Europe had been overrun with a gang that had taken the place of Moriarty's network that Sherlock had dismantled a year previous. This group had stolen, bought, and otherwise acquired a massive amount of dangerous information. Relative to not only the governments of several major players in the world, but also to the safety of British citizens. Sherlock went in to dismantle and get rid of that information. Again.

Sherlock Holmes was a hero, a dragon slayer, one who would finish the job no matter the cost. Because it was the last thing he was going to do.

His five and a half months had left him exhausted, underfed, and broken. But a success. The first four hideouts had been infiltrated and the information deleted, destroyed, or otherwise prevented from being transmitted or copied. His body count at this point was thirty-five. Thirty-six including the murder that had saved his best friend and the only other person that made him happy. The murder that had put him here.

If anything, Sherlock would die knowing he did the right thing. He supposed that might have been a comfort. Especially now.

The fifth location had been the last one, and like the others he'd spent time infiltrating their operation. This one was in Paris, and had been the main European center for this network. Going undercover always had its risks. The information had disappeared in a flash drive thrown into the fire after everything on the computer systems had been deleted. He'd succeeded, the mission was over. And while he'd done what needed doing, he'd been caught.

That had been almost a week ago. Five days of no food, and nightly beatings. Pain and torment as his captors took out their frustrations at losing the vital knowledge. Revenge, compensation, whatever it was. It wasn't enough to kill him, but it was a pretty good taste for when they actually did plan on it.

Still, he was sure they'd finish him off soon. His deductions would only do so much more. There'd be no escape from this one, it was too heavily guarded and he'd been through the options based on his strength level. The people were getting ready to move again, their leader - a Frenchman named Moreau - was making a calculated decision based on what Sherlock had done. So when they came to fetch him for the sixth night, he'd resigned himself to the fact that he was probably going to die that day. It was the 10th of June, seemed like a good a day as any.

He hoped someone found his body. That Mycroft would come swooping in and take him home, even if it was too late. Proof that Sherlock Holmes had laid down his life and given away his freedom for John Watson, Mary Watson, and their daughter.

Sherlock had gotten a text from Mycroft that morning in February. It had been short and to the point. _Josina Marie Sherlock Watson. Born the 7th of February. Family is healthy and well. -M_

Sherlock didn't respond anything more than a statement of gratitude as a note to say he was still alive.

Maybe they'd just put a bullet in his head and be done with it. That's what he'd done for Magnussen. Merciful: a scalpel instead of a hammer. But there'd be no such mercy for Sherlock, no brother venturing into the Serbian wilderness to save him, no army doctor to protect him, no clever deductions.

The first half hour had started as it usually did, stringing him up by his wrists, blows with a fist and threats to get information. _Who sent you? What's your name? Do you have a partner?_ Then they got creative, a metal pipe was next. His mind unable to not turn through all the problems his transport would be experiencing: massive bruising, broken ribs, abrasions, sleep deprivation, dehydration, infections, lack of nourishment.

He'd kept his cries and vocalizations to a minimum. But was unable to contain them all. Eventually, his head dropped, lulling onto his chest. He'd lost the feeling in his hands, as well as the strength to hold himself up on the balls of his feet. He'd been stripped down to his dirty boxers days ago. He was the picture of vulnerability…a victim at the hands of a merciless oppressor.

 _Please God, let me die…_

When they stopped, he was still alive. But there was something, they weren't done…his exhausted brain couldn't figure it out. And the three people in the room disappeared out the door, leaving Sherlock hanging. Quite literally.

A modicum of hope surged through him. He was alone, which means he could escape. Escape to be shot on the street, of course, but at least there was a chance. He'd rather be shot than beat to death. So he started working frantically, pulling with the little bit of strength he had left.

Finally and almost _miraculously_ , the rope loosened. Sherlock collapsed. He landed with a soft grunt when his broken body hit the cement floor of the abandoned building. It took a few seconds to get orientated, but he lifted himself off of the ground as adrenaline surged through him and he headed to the door.

Later, he wouldn't remember the escape. Whatever was happening with the people holding him captive was enough that they just weren't around to stop him. He didn't care. For right now…all he had to do was get out of there, find somewhere safe, and collapse.

He made it outside, running nearly naked through the dirty underbelly of Paris' ghetto. But, he didn't get much farther before his transport ultimately gave up on him.

Sherlock Holmes was an abused man, a nobody, a nameless face, and currently marked for death. He collapsed in the back alleyway of nowhere, betting on either dying there or being found by the gang again and killed anyways. The latter seemed the likeliest, they couldn't be that far behind. It seemed like a good a spot as any. He simply couldn't continue.

His mind provided him with the next steps. He couldn't hide, and the mercenaries would eventually find him. They'd be quiet, silencers, no shouting. They'd keep him there, or maybe drag him into a building as they waited for Moreau to show. Then they'd kill him. Hopefully just a silent shot to the chest or head. They might be angry enough to beat him to death, he couldn't deduce that for sure. Hard cold metal would meet vulnerable flesh, over and over again. Internal bleeding, broken bones, blunt force trauma...Death.

Death was unavoidable. He'd been running from it for too long already; he cheated the grave over and over again with the help of his best friend. The one he died for.

No, he wasn't dead yet, but balance of probability suggested he would be. Maybe it was time. There was a proper time to die, after all.

So the broken man slumped against the brick wall next to a door, fading in and out of consciousness as he prayed for the bullet to take him as painlessly as possible.


	2. Chapter 2

" _Are you ready for the world to see you as you really are?"_

Natasha Romanoff was a woman on the run. Her feet were weary from repeatedly pounding the pavement. Her body ached from near constant exertion and not enough rest. She was tired and vulnerable and _exposed._

Over a year ago she'd attended a committee hearing addressing S.H.I.E.L.D.'s infiltration by Hydra, and the subsequent collapse of both organizations. She'd been running ever since.

Soulless soviet running for her life was a familiar skin. One she thought she'd left behind when she'd turned over the proverbial new leaf and joined S.H.I.E.L.D. She'd spent years atoning for her past under their protection. Burying her secrets. She forgot secrets never keep.

By exposing Hydra, and by extension, S.H.I.E.L.D, Natasha had also exposed her herself. She'd made herself the target of not only the United States government but also every other government and terrorist organization she'd worked against during her long, blood-drenched career. It was only fitting. Her previous protection and anonymity had come at a heavy price. She knew the score. Blood begets blood, after all.

Still, she was a survivor and she had a job to do—a past to atone for. Idle hands or so the saying went. She couldn't count on Steve to help her because he was busy chasing his own demons with Sam. Clint had a family of three, and one on the way, to protect. Tony was still elbow deep in damage control. Bruce made it a point to avoid stress. S.H.I.E.L.D. was in ruins and its agents were scattered, along with their loyalties. Not for the first time in her life, Natasha was alone.

 _Story of my life_.

It was an old debt that brought her to Paris in June. One of many she'd been settling during her year off the grid.

Tori Raven, an acquaintance from the old days, promised her information. Natasha flew in to meet her just outside Paris to make the exchange. Twenty-four hours later found her in a house on La Courneuve or what Raven referred to as the French ghetto. Natasha struck gold. A location and a name.

She stopped for a bottle of vodka on her way back to the safe house. About a block away, she tipped her head back to look up at the stars.

She'd always loved Paris in the summer. She loved the promise of warm rain spattering her skin perhaps almost as much loved the bitter cold of Russian winters. Almost. There was something like comfort in both, at least. Or there had been once upon a time. Those days were long gone.

She lowered her eyes to the alleyway leading up to her destination when she rounded the corner, and swept them over the narrow path between buildings. The slumped form beside her door caught her attention. She reached for her gun.

" _Rise and shine_ ," she drawled in perfect French.

When the man didn't stir, Natasha sauntered over and crouched in front of him with her gun clearly within view. His eyes weren't open to see it. Upon closer inspection of his face and body she noticed he was injured, and not from a run of the mill beating. He'd been systematically abused over several days. She recognized the signs.

He was also underfed, and his wrists were rubbed raw by what she could only assume were rope bindings. He'd been held captive. For a week perhaps, but she couldn't be sure until she had a better look. She'd have to drag him in for that soon if she didn't want to be dealing with a corpse come morning.

Rising from her crouch, Natasha opened the door using a hidden keypad and deposited the bottle of vodka on her kitchen counter. She stepped back out still holding her gun and crouched in front of him one more time.

"Hey." Her voice was just fractionally softer this time around as she turned his face to look her way. She no longer bothered with French. "You alive in there?"

The man's bright clear blue eyes snapped open, and his hand moved quickly to grasp her wrist. He didn't attack, or otherwise move, just held onto her. Eyes went to the gun, over her crouched form, and then landed on her face. "If…if you're going to kill me…please do it quickly."

Natasha's green gazed locked onto his blue one. "I'm not going to kill you," she decided at length. "What I am going to do is drag you inside and help you. In return you're going to explain exactly how you came to be on my doorstep in the first place." She twisted her wrist out of his grasp without breaking eye contact and lowered her knees to the pavement so that she was kneeling beside him. "Put your arm around my shoulders."

The man hesitated, but after a moment he did as instructed. A stifled groan accompanied the movement as she helped him off of the ground. "It…it's a…long story."

"I'll bet." Natasha snaked an arm around his broken torso and very slowly helped him to his feet. He was heavier than he looked and quite a bit taller than her, but she guided him inside with a fair amount of ease. She nudged the door closed with her foot once they were inside. "Should I even bother asking for your name?"

Her couch was just eight steps away, past the adjoining kitchen. She helped him into a controlled collapse when they reached it so that he was stretched out on his back. "John…if you need one."

"I need one. You look like you'll be sticking around for a while." Natasha sat on the coffee table and faced him, debating the level threat he posed. His injuries weren't an act. She could tell now that she'd had a look in better lighting. He was also in no condition to fight her either. At least not yet.

Her eyes settled on his face one more time. "Okay, look. I don't know you and you don't know me, but someone did a real number on you. I'd really rather not deal with another dead body right now and, I'm assuming, you'd rather not die. So I'm going to help you and it's going to hurt, but I can't do that with a gun in my hand." Her eyes locked with his. "So whoever you are and whatever you're here for, I'm going to ask you for a truce instead of trust. Does that sound fair?"

Pale blue eyes, sticking out from the bruises and abrasions that decorated his face, ran over her again in the better lighting. "Fair." He said at last, his voice tired and heavy. "I'll behave…because I'm quite certain you would not...hesitate to kill me otherwise. You're an agent, trained killer."

"Yes." Natasha watched him for a moment longer, then stood. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

Once inside her bedroom, she removed her weapons and placed them neatly on top of her dresser. She lingered in front of it when she was done, considering. He was hurt, but it wouldn't be the first time someone was fooled by a pretty pair of eyes and a broken body. She reasoned she could subdue him without weapons if it became necessary. As tired as she was, survival instinct had a way of taking over and getting the job done.

She moved away from the dresser and shrugged out of her leather jacket. The shirt and jeans beneath were a little dirty and bloodspattered, but otherwise intact. She took her boots off next, kicked them to a corner and raked her hair up into ponytail on her way to the bathroom. Having gathered the few medical supplies she kept on hand for emergencies, she stole a peek at herself in the mirror and slipped back out into the living room.

"Talk to me," she requested once she'd resumed her place atop the coffee table, laying the items out beside her one by one. "Tell me what happened. Gist of it, at least."

"Trouble." He paused. "I had a…an assignment, and I wasn't meant to survive. It's done, I succeeded…but those people will try to find and kill me. Just…so you know."

Natasha snapped on a pair of gloves and leaned over to check his wounds. "I appreciate the warning." Her eyes strayed briefly to his face. "I've got a few people on my tail too. Nothing I can't handle, but they might still make an appearance and make things difficult. Just so you know." She straightened a little and scooted closer to the edge of the table to begin cleaning his wounds. She spoke while she worked. "You don't strike me as an agent," she said. "My first guess with you would be MI6 going by your accent, but I've met people from MI6. I don't think you're one of them. Is it pointless to ask that too?"

"MI6…sort of…at least now." He said, hissing as she cleaned a wound on his chest. "It's a long story. I'm…a consulting detective, or was."

"Consulting detective." Natasha worked in silence while she debated how much of her own story she wanted to reveal. She knew he'd gleaned at least some information from her appearance alone, but she still didn't know how much. "I'm no longer an agent, but I used to be. Lost my job about a year ago. If 'lost' is the right word."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. agent then." The man concluded. "Your accent…is currently American, but I suspect it was something else. You're currently…on the run, ever since the organization fell. The people on your tail…they know who you are, but you're.…quite good-" He barely suppressed another cry as the wound pulled, fisting his fingers into his dirty boxers.

Natasha's hands stilled over his chest. "I'm almost done," she assured him and resumed working after a moment's hesitation. "I think I know who you are."

The man didn't look surprised, but there was a certain amount of vulnerability in his tired eyes. "Then I'm impressed." He said, pausing a moment as he studied her again. "And I think…I think I know who you are too."

"Then I'm impressed," Natasha echoed with the barest hint of a smile. "If you know who I am, then you know my reputation. I said I wouldn't kill you, though, and I meant it." She paused. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"If you were going to, you'd have done it by now, without helping me." Sherlock Holmes said, the corner of his mouth raising in a ghost of a smirk despite the circumstances. He took another second, pulling her name out of the sheer amount of information he had. "Natasha Romanoff, it's a pleasure."

"Likewise." Natasha smiled fully but continued working in silence until she was finished. She straightened her spine and turned her upper half away from him to clean the mess of bloodied gauze beside her on the table. "I'm done for now," she announced. "If you feel up to taking a shower, I can go find a towel. Clothes I don't have. None that will fit you, at least, but I'll run out and find some first thing tomorrow. If you don't mind wearing just a blanket until then, that is."

"Not at all." Sherlock said, relaxing into the couch and closing his eyes. "Need to sleep. I'll.…shower later."

"I'll find that blanket." Natasha made quick work of cleaning up and putting away her supplies before rummaging through her room for an extra blanket. He was almost completely far gone when she stepped back out to drape it over him and she eyed him perhaps a second too long.

On her way back to her room, she grabbed the bottle of vodka from the kitchen counter and flicked off the light. "Sweet dreams," she called quietly.

There was a murmur of response, but nothing else from the battered man. Natasha grabbed a towel from her closet without closing her bedroom door and took the vodka with her into the bathroom. It was small but clean, and organized like the rest of her safe house. She closed the door behind her with a soft click, turned the shower on with a quick swipe of her hand and sunk to the floor while twisting the cap off her bottle. She took a generous sip.

After she'd showered and changed, and after she'd gone through her little apartment twice checking doors and windows, she collapsed on her bed with a heavy sigh. From her position on the mattress, she could see the back of her couch past her bedroom door. Sherlock Holmes would be fast asleep on the other side.

Natasha wasn't sure how she felt about that. She hadn't slept in such close proximity to another living being in over a year and they weren't even sharing a bed. She felt vulnerable, she decided. And though her eyes eventually closed and her body managed to relax, sleep didn't come easy.

Come morning, she was dressed and ready to go far too early. She left to meet with Tori Raven one more time and left a note for Sherlock on the counter explaining she'd be back shortly with clothes and food.

She picked both up on the way back, but lingered just outside her door for longer than she cared to admit. She didn't just feel vulnerable, she realized. She felt displaced and out of sorts. Perhaps because her new life was starting to feel so much like her old one.

Or, a voice whispered inside her head, perhaps because for the first time in a very long time, she didn't feel so alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock slept solid, dead to the world. His beaten and bruised body needed the rest, so it was a good start. No dreams or nightmares; his life the last six months had been enough of a nightmare as it was. When he finally woke up, the memories came quickly, from the beatings, to the escape, to the mercy of a stranger.

With a groan, he pushed himself into a sitting position. His eyes swept over the safe house: basic, organized, small. He counted several places for hidden weapons, and a back escape route. Most importantly, it was safe. Natasha Romanoff wasn't there, but he deduced she was in the middle of her own mission, so it wasn't a surprise.

He was supposed to be dead. Mycroft had been wrong. Not that Sherlock was complaining about that, his brother probably wouldn't either. The question remained: would he be able to go home?

Natasha was next on his mind. He was fairly confident she wouldn't kill or otherwise harm him. She was in a very similar situation, on the run from dangerous people.

He'd dwell on her later. The first thing he needed to do was shower, wash the blood and grime off of himself. Not to mention wash the memories of the last six months away.

After reading through her note on the counter, he found his way to the small bathroom. His bloody boxers went straight into the bin and the beat of the warm water on his back brought with it a dull pain. Afterwards, he slipped back through the door in just a towel.

"Morning," Natasha greeted from the small kitchen sharing space with her living room. "I wasn't sure what you'd go for, so I brought a few options for breakfast." She gestured at the paper bag and cup of coffee on the counter. "Bag of clothes is on the couch," she added, giving him a once over.

Sherlock repaid the once over with one of his own, subtle and quick. One of his hands ruffled his damp hair, the other holding the towel around his lower half. "Thanks." He said, changing directions for the couch. "I'll take all the options...after get decent."

"If you insist. I've never really cared much for decency." Natasha hid a smirk and eyed him over the rim of her cup . "How are you feeling?"

"I'm…alright." Sherlock turned towards the couch first then, shuffling through the bag to find a clean pair of pants. Since no one really cared about decency apparently, he dropped the towel once his back was facing her and slowly pulled the undergarment on. "Feeling about as well as I look, which shouldn't be a surprise."

"It's not. Last night you mentioned you were done with your mission." Her tone was careful but neutral. "Does that mean you'll be going back soon?"

Sherlock paused as he reached for the dark jeans. "I don't know." He said, glancing back at her as he sat down to pull the jeans on. "What about you? Your…purpose in Paris is something more than just hiding. You're on your own mission."

"I'm repaying a debt," Natasha said with the smallest amount of hesitation. "I'll be staying in Paris until the job is done. Heading out tonight, as a matter of fact." She paused. "None of it is exactly legal."

"Is that intended to put me off?" Sherlock asked, foregoing the shirt at the moment and moving back to the kitchen area for the promised food.

"It would put most people off." Natasha watched him curiously while he opened the paper bag, catching his eye as he looked up at her. "Not that you're most people. How proficient are you with a gun?"

"Decent, I suppose. Nowhere near your level of skill, but I can hit a target."

Natasha held his gaze and leaned forward on the counter. "This person... the one I'm indebted to... I killed her husband and left her little girl without a dad to watch over her several years ago," she explained. "He was a KGB defector, and the KGB doesn't play around with defectors. I would know." Her lips lifted at the corner, but only briefly. "Her little girl… she's a teenager now, and she's in trouble. I'm here to help."

"And you want an injured man you barely know to watch your back while you deal with the kind of trouble that might end up with one or both of us and a teenager dead?" Sherlock asked impassively as he sat down. "Very well, I accept."

"Didn't really have to sell that to you, did I?" Natasha stole a muffin and tore a small piece for herself. "Are you always this easy to convince? Because if you are, I've got another proposition for you."

"I don't do anything I don't want to do." He answered, eyeing her with a slightly wary expression at the unknown proposition. Something he couldn't deduce. And he was sure he liked the challenge. "So it depends."

"I'll run the proposition by you when you're in better physical condition." Natasha winked at him and straightened in her chair. "I'm assuming you have no plans for the rest of the day?"

"I'm supposed to be dead, so no, I don't." Sherlock said after a moment, seemingly unaffected by the wink. "I need a burner phone, something to contact my brother with. I don't suppose you have a spare around here? Otherwise I'm going to need a disguise."

"I have a spare." Natasha slid gracefully off her chair and walked to the bedroom, reappearing a moment later with the aforementioned phone in her hand. "I'll go over the details of what we'll be doing tonight after you're done," she said while placing the item next to him on the counter. "Do you need a disguise anyway?"

"Depends on what we're doing tonight." Sherlock said, regretfully putting down the bagel he was halfway through to pick up the phone. "But probably, make-up to cover the bruises if we're going to be in public, and I think I need a haircut." He turned his attention to the phone, fingers flying over the keys as he typed out a text to the British Government.

 _Mission accomplished, you should have received that encrypted email last week. I'm not dead, but something's come up. I'll be in contact. -S_

 _Email was received. I expect to hear from you in a week. -M_

Sherlock ignored the text back from Mycroft and set the phone down.

Natasha eyed his hair with a critical eye. "I wouldn't risk going out in public for one of those," she commented, and slow enough that he could stop her if he wanted to, she reached up to run her fingers through his hair. "I could cut it for you."

The gesture was obvious to him, but there was a quick second of fear born of six months of hell. He didn't stop her. And his eyes closed unconsciously, his head bowing as she ran her hand through his curls. How long had it been since he'd been touched in a gesture that wasn't malicious? Aside from last night it had been months, and he found himself missing it. After a moment he spoke again. "Probably a good idea. If you don't mind."

"Not at all." Natasha watched him closely with something like understanding in her eyes. Her fingers lingered briefly against the back of his neck before she withdrew her hand. "Whenever you're ready."

"After breakfast." Sherlock reached for the coffee. He met her eyes again and prompted. "You said you were going to go over details of tonight's operation."

Natasha nodded once and hopped up to sit on the counter beside him. "I said the girl was in trouble," she began anew. "It's trouble of the worst kind. Got herself mixed up with some bad people. Wound up getting sucked into a human trafficking ring." Her voice had a venomous edge to it. "I've seen pictures and she's pretty. Young too, which means she'll sell. I also spoke to an old contact of mine, and I've got the time and location for the next auction. My job is to retrieve that girl, but I don't plan on leaving many people alive."

Sherlock was quiet a moment and then nodded once. "You saved my life," he started seriously, lowering the coffee cup back to the counter, "I'm indebted to you. You can trust me to have your back however you need me."

"I just need you to make sure the girl gets out safe. If anyone's bloodying up their hands tonight, it's going to be me." She averted her eyes and hopped off the counter. "You don't owe me, though. Just so you know."

He took a second to attempt to deduce her again. He considered the fact that it might get easier after some practice, and let it go again. "Perhaps not, but it seemed like a good of an excuse as any to get myself involved. Besides, the sooner you're done here, the sooner we can get out of the country."

"Fair." Natasha turned to walk away. "I'll go get the scissors and fix you up so we can go and scope the place out before we storm it tonight."

"Acceptable." Sherlock said. "I'll pick up a disguise on the way." He shoved the last part of the bagel into his mouth and slipped off of the stool, intending to find a shirt. "Could be dangerous."

"Could be fun." Natasha stole a peek at him from the doorway to her bedroom. "Keep your shirt off while I cut your hair."

"Not a problem." Sherlock replied, concealing a smirk as he turned his back.


	4. Chapter 4

A few hours, a haircut, more injury tending, plenty of pain medication, and a disguise later, they left the safe house. Sherlock's dark hair was short, but long enough to still have just a little curl on the top. In addition to the grey button-up shirt, he'd swiped a pair of glasses, a leather jacket, and a French beret as a disguise. They'd covered the few bruises and abrasions on his face with make-up.

But his guard was still up. Everyone was a suspect, everyone would have been the gang's eyes and ears. Any second he could get taken out by a sniper, or kidnapped again. The weight of a Beretta M9 in his inner jacket pocket was a comfort.

Natasha remained silent after they left the house, which Sherlock was grateful for. His head was full, and he needed thinking time. If only the few minutes walk through the Paris summer.

Natasha steered them towards a cafe in one of the more affluent neighborhoods of the city, located across the street from the building they were meant to watch. It wasn't a particularly tall building, but it did stretch considerably towards the sides and announced a 'members only' casino as a front. Natasha eyed it stealthily behind her aviators while a waitress led them to an outdoor table, offering two menus. Rather than browse through the options, Natasha pushed the sleeves up on her pale brown trench and conveyed a short order for two in perfect French.

She thanked the waitress before she disappeared and turned the full weight of her focus on Sherlock, flashing a smile as if they'd known each other for years. "Doing okay?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock said with his own comfortable smile, using the adapted American accent he'd put on for the day to match Natasha's. Just another level of disguise. "Just considerably hungry."

"Well lunch is on me," Natasha replied. "Help yourself." She casually eyed the people around them before she slid her sunglasses off her face and set them down on the table. She began an innocent line of conversation, to keep up appearances in case people were watching or listening in. "Leather suits you."

"Considering what I was wearing last night, I assume it's a bit of an improvement." Sherlock said, carefully pulling out the small bottle of pills they'd acquired, a broad-spectrum antibiotic and pain medication to take. "Then again, maybe not."

Natasha exhaled the first laugh in months. "Maybe not," she confirmed. "Color me surprised," she added. "I wasn't aware you had a sense of humor."

"It happens on occasion." Sherlock said impassively. "People tend to be surprised, I don't know why."

"I do," she answered quickly, "but it's good to keep that sort of thing under your sleeve, so it still works out in your favor." Her eyes darted briefly towards two black vans approaching the building she was keeping an eye on. "I don't have a sense of humor, apparently," she continued.

"It's not a point against you, more than half the time I miss the joke." Sherlock replied to keep the casual conversation going. He caught the vans out of the corner of his eye, but didn't turn. The vans were glossy and well kept, but unmarked. They turned just beneath one of the entrance arches of the structure and an intricate iron gate closed behind them. Two guards took up posts in front of it.

"If you do, I'd say it's one of the very few things you do miss." Natasha smiled at the waitress when she brought back their order. "It's a useful skill."

"Sorry, what's a useful skill?" He asked, taking the plate of food with a ' _merci_ '. "Being myself?"

"Attention to detail." Natasha picked up a fork and turned it in her hand as if considering the possibility of using it as a weapon. "One and the same for you, I suppose. Not so much for other people."

"Other people are idiots. So, yes, you're right." Sherlock agreed between bites.

"I usually am." Natasha took a quick bite of her food while sneaking covert glances over his shoulder at the building beyond. "Think you'd be up for a walk after we're done here?"

"Yep. I'm ready to go whenever we need to."

Her eyes darted to the plate in front of him. "Eat a little more, we'll leave in a few minutes," she told him. "I'm still working on mine."

Sherlock nodded simply, but finished his food relatively quickly and in complete silence. A few minutes later, he leaned back in his seat. "Ready?"

"Always." Natasha slid her sunglasses back on and paid for the food once the waitress returned, rising from her chair a second later. She reached for Sherlock's hand with a warm smile and pulled him closer so she could whisper. "One turn around the block, then we can go. I just need a look at the back of the building."

"Lead the way." Sherlock said, whispering back as if they were a pair of lovers. Ever watchful eyes scanned the area while they walked, picking out vulnerabilities and hiding spots. The turn around the block was spent in silence, until he gave her a curious look as if to ask what she thought.

Natasha caught the look out of the corner of her eye and leaned in close, taking hold of his arm with her free hand and a coy smile. "I've seen worse," she said. "Getting myself captured would've been easier, but for this particular operation it's better to find another way in. We'll need disguises. Tuxedo for you and a dress for me, if we want to blend in with the casino crowd."

"I can make that work." Sherlock assured her.

"Let's hail down a cab and find the nearest department store. I'll make it quick."

Natasha approached shopping for clothes the same way she approached every mission. Quick and precise, leaving little room for hesitation. She picked her dress first, going for a backless silk number in black and a slit down her leg. She swiped a pair of shoes on her way to the men's section, giving Sherlock a cursory once over before picking out his outfit. Thankfully, no alterations were needed for either of them and they left the store in record time.

The rescue took considerably longer. They had no invitations to the high end casino and security, while perhaps not the definition of proficiency, was sufficiently competent that any show of force would cause a stir. They weren't looking to cause a stir just yet, not before they retrieved the girl. Lucille was her name, Natasha told Sherlock. Blonde with blue eyes and a button nose. She showed him a picture while changing into their brand new outfits at the safe house, and stashed it back amongst her things before they left.

It took some manipulating to get inside the building, namely Natasha distracting security while Sherlock snuck inside, but they managed it. Sherlock took over inside the casino, whispering observations in her ear to let her know which people were undercover security and which people were merely casino members having a good time. She smiled as if he was saying something else, and eventually pulled him into an out of the way alcove to plot out their next move.

To anyone who couldn't see her covertly sliding out a slim dagger, or Sherlock adjusting his gun, they looked like lovers sneaking a quiet moment together. She pulled him close and brought her lips to his ear.

"I'll take them down, you watch my back," she whispered quickly. "Once I find the girl, I'll send her your way and you can sneak out the back. I'll meet you there." She paused. "If I'm not out in fifteen minutes, though, you go back to the safe house without me." She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and brushed his bottom lip with her thumb. "Ready?"

"Lead the way." Sherlock said quietly, his expression impassive but anticipatory.

It took them an hour, all total. Natasha hadn't just found Lucille, she'd found thirteen other girls she insisted she couldn't leave behind. Sherlock agreed wholeheartedly. So they didn't. One by one, she snuck them out until there was no one left but buyers and sellers. Natasha made quick work of them, letting go with a warning only those with families. She didn't need a repeat of what she'd done to Lucille.

Thirteen girls were delivered to the proper authorities, but Lucille came back to the safe house with them and spent the night. Next morning, Natasha delivered the girl to her mother with an assurance that she was safe and that it was all over. The woman was grateful, but resentment over what she'd done was still there and Natasha knew it wouldn't be disappearing any time soon, no matter how many favors she laid down at her feet. It was only fair. Without another word, she left the tiny apartment and took a cab to her safe house where Sherlock and a bottle of vodka awaited her return.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch. He'd been keeping up with his medication for the infection and pain management for his ribs. Though the mission had left him exhausted, it had been more than fun, between the physical demand, the undercover work, and his unlikely partner, he felt accomplished.

When the door clicked, he woke up quickly, having been a light sleeper out of necessity in the months of his exile. His hand also twitched towards his gun and he tensed until he caught sight of the now familiar head of red hair. With a soft breath and a quick series of deductions, he relaxed back onto the couch. "It's done then."

"It is." Natasha closed the door behind her and walked to the kitchen, opening the freezer to retrieve the vodka. "Celebration's in order, I think. How's the pain?"

"Manageable, but really not that bad." Sherlock said, pressing himself up from the couch into a sitting position. "Nothing I can't or haven't handled."

"Then would you like a drink?"

"Sure, why not?"

Natasha retrieved two glasses and set them on the counter. "I assume you're not leaving the country just yet," she spoke while she poured.

"I have no idea what I'm doing." Sherlock said, leaning back on the couch with his feet on the coffee table. "Wasn't planning on making it this long. Perhaps a couple more days, depending on two things."

Natasha eyed him briefly. "Let's hear them."

"What your plans are, I'd hate to interrupt or inconvenience you more than I have." Sherlock started. "And the second is what I'm supposed to do if and when I get back to London. That's a conversation I'll need to have with the British Government."

Natasha's lips twitched in amusement at the nickname. "My plans aren't set in stone," she said. "I know I need to make contact with my teammates soon, but not yet. Not until it's safe." Leaving the bottle of vodka on the counter, she carried their half-full glasses over to the couch and settled in. "And you're not an inconvenience," she added, passing one of them along.

Sherlock eyed her as he took the glass. "Good to know, I suppose." He took an experimental sip and made a bit of a face. "Those men are still looking for me, I'm not certain it's safe for me either. I doubt they'll let me live long if and when they track me down. Still sure I'm not an inconvenience?"

"I've already taken that into account and I'm still sure," she confirmed. "If you don't mind the company, you're welcome to stay as long as you like. I'm not going anywhere just yet."

"Hm." Sherlock hummed thoughtfully and then nodded, bringing the glass to his lips again. "Alright." He agreed without ceremony. "I don't mind the company, honestly I find it...stimulating."

"Do you?" Natasha eyed him curiously over the rim of her glass. "Then you should know it goes both ways."

"Of course it does." He replied unabashedly, lowering the glass again. "I'm guessing it wouldn't be safe for you to stay in contact after we part ways, would it?"

"Not for extended periods of time." Natasha took a quick sip and mirrored him by lowering her glass with a faint smile and a tilt of her head. "Why? Will you miss me?"

Sherlock eyed her again, answering casually. "I don't know. Just a question, attempting to make conversation."

"It's an interesting question." Natasha leaned over to set her glass down on the coffee table. "Because I could, in theory, pay you sporadic visits in London," she suggested off-handedly. "If we're just making conversation."

"No need to go out of your way." Sherlock said, almost dismissively "But I wouldn't mind a conversation if you're in the area."

Natasha straightened and met his eyes. "I wouldn't mind going out of my way for a conversation with you," she said. "Or more than conversation... if you're so inclined."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, coming up short. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Then I'll make it clearer." Natasha moved in close and slid her hand behind his neck, closing the distance between their lips for a chaste kiss. She lingered close after breaking contact. "How's that?"

Sherlock wasn't terribly sure how to react to that, he hadn't moved in the slightest, not even closing his eyes. It was...odd, and maybe enjoyable, but he wasn't sure. "That was a kiss." He concluded, blinking a couple times. "And I don't know."

"Well I could try again if you're not sure..." Natasha ran her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Or I could stop."

Sherlock eyes swept over her features, coming again to lock onto her big green eyes again. Deductions only went so far. He cleared his throat. "I'm still not sure. And I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice, so perhaps you don't-."

Natasha drew him into another kiss and spoke against his lips. "I want to," she said softly. "And I can be patient. We can take it slow…" She tipped her head back just enough to meet his eyes. "It's been a long time for me too."

Sherlock blinked a couple times, processing the feeling that was a kiss that wasn't for show or manipulation, but for pleasure. He hesitantly reached to gently touch her cheek with the tips of his fingers. "I find your company stimulating." He echoed and leaned in to initiate his own kiss, terribly out of practice. But there was no need to abstain, he wasn't working a case, he really should have been dead two days ago. He could allow himself a small indulgence into something he'd blocked out for so many years he nearly forgot it existed.

Natasha tangled her fingers his short curls and climbed over his legs so that her thighs were bracketing his hips and she was straddling his lap. She kissed him fervently, deeply, thoroughly. Wanting to dispel whatever doubts lingered regarding her intentions with her actions rather than her words, but also wanting to be careful not to push too far.

He wasn't sure what to do with his hands, and one of them lingered on the couch seat beside him as she shifted. He also had no idea what he was doing, but he took his cues from her, deducing in an entirely different manner. The scientist in his brain reminded him of the chemicals being released, the comfort and happiness and serenity hormones that were triggered pleasant feelings from the stimulation of her lips against his. And again, the deepening of the contact was enjoyable, so he didn't stop. Eventually after a pause to breathe, his hands moved to rest on her hips. Long moments later, he broke away again, opening dilated eyes to meet hers. "I'm...I'm sure that was alright, correct? Did I do that wrong?"

"You did that right," Natasha assured him breathlessly. "Just like riding a bike. You don't forget." She moved her hands to his chest and met his eyes again, pressing herself closer. "Do you want to stop or keep going?"

Sherlock hesitated, trying to decide what she meant by kept going; until it dawned on him and he fidgeted slightly in awkward embarrassment at his own body. "I...I don't know, I'm not...it's been a long time. _Should_ we keep going?"

"Only if you want to," Natasha told him gently. "I certainly do, but I don't want you to feel pressured into doing anything you don't feel comfortable doing." She took his face in both her hands. "I like you and I trust you. I find your company stimulating, mentally and physically... and I want to explore the latter with you if you're willing," she told him honestly. "But it's no big deal if you're not."

Sherlock's expression was thoughtful, his brow pinched just slightly as he looked her over. _Explore._ That was a good word, because he was so far out of his range of expertise, he didn't know what to do. But she was willing, she was gentle, she understood him and what he'd just been through. She could _see_ him, he wouldn't have to put up a front. Besides, he found her interesting. That was reason enough for attachment, and the curiosity that came with what they were doing right then fueled the rest of his decision.

His hands shifted up to her waist instead and he nodded once. "I'm interested. But you take point."

Natasha smiled. "Deal." She stole another quick kiss. "Let's move over to the bed."

"Bed. Right." Sherlock said with a renewed anticipatory energy, he wasn't bored and that was a surprising relief. "Not sure I have the athleticism to attempt another location right now."

"Rain check, then," she teased as she slipped off his lap and reached for his hand. "How are your injuries?"

"Manageable, I took something before you came back." Sherlock said as he took her hand. "I've had worse."

"I don't doubt it." Natasha led him into the bedroom and closed the door, turning to back him up against the bed. "Just let me know if anything hurts, okay?" She reached for the buttons of his shirt and looked up into his eyes, smiling faintly. "Take off my shirt."

"That would be the next step, wouldn't it?" Sherlock said, mainly for his own benefit, sitting down as she finished the buttons. He hesitated, but slipped his hands under her shirt, gently pulling it up and off of her. He blinked a couple times, keeping his eyes on her face despite the newly revealed skin. "What's next?"

Natasha took care of her boots and jeans herself, then once again straddled his lap. "Next…" She took his hands and guided them to her hips while keeping eye contact. "You kiss me… slowly."

"Okay." He said, pausing just a moment before he leaning forward and kissed her. His eyes were open until he made contact and then he closed them, attempting to let his body take over for his ever racing mind. His hands slipped up her sides, until he was pulling her closer and fiddling awkwardly with her bra clasp.

Natasha cupped his face with one hand and reached behind with the other to help with the fastening. She brought her hand back around when it snapped open and held up the front of her bra, wanting Sherlock to do the undressing. "Take it off," she requested against his lips.

Sherlock took a breath and, with steady hands, slipped the garment off of her shoulders. That was then discarded on the floor and he tilted his head to press a kiss to her neck. "I trust you too." He said between soft kisses.

Natasha tipped her head back to give him better access, shivering at his gentle touch. "Good," she breathed, blindly tugging at his shirt to help him out of it, "because I've got you."

Casting the button-down aside, Natasha pushed Sherlock flat on the mattress and dipped her head to map the set of his jaw and the slope of his neck with kissed-warmed lips, pausing to pepper his skin with kisses.

Sherlock let out a noise he'd later deny and closed his eyes, letting his brain just stop thinking. It was a welcome reprieve, and he let himself go, safe in the hands of his recent savior. Perhaps a new addiction, perhaps a one time indulgence, he wasn't sure yet. That didn't matter now. So he let his hands wander freely, experimenting and exploring her lean body.

Natasha helped him out of the rest of his clothes and did the same for the one bit of fabric left on her body, but the full weight of her focus was on _him_. His beautiful blue eyes, dilated and hesitant on hers. His hands burning her skin. She crawled back over to meet his lips and memorized the heat of the contact and the flush of his skin, and the shivering sensation of his long fingers exploring her curves.

It'd been far too long for both of them, but for an unmeasurable amount of time that didn't matter. It was a new experience. A relearning. A reacquainting with a part of their humanity they'd forgotten but wanted to recapture, if only for one moment.

Eventually, they stilled in each other's arms amidst tangled sheets, heavy breaths, lazy kisses, and breathy laughs, two seconds away from a full night's rest. Sleeping with someone, more than sex, was an intimate act for Natasha. It was a show of trust beyond sharing her body. It was putting herself, vulnerable and unprotected, in someone else's hands. She couldn't remember having done that with anyone, but she was exhausted, and comfortable with both her body tucked against his side, and her face buried in the crook of his neck.

She breathed him in and closed her eyes. "You okay?"

For Sherlock, it seemed like such an easy question, normal, ordinary. But the answer was complicated, intricate, a list of the variety of emotions over the last couple days. Fear had turned into quiet. Pain had turned into pleasure. Suspicion had turned into understanding. Depression had turned into intrigue. Loneliness had turned into companionship. An unexpected encounter had turned into complete trust. Funny how quickly his life changed sometimes. His thoughts were calm, his body exhausted, his brain filled with a series of euphoric chemicals he'd name later.

His chest rose and fell in a deep breath before he answered, turning his head to rest his lips on her forehead. "Yes, I think I am. That was…" losing the correct word to describe it, he just said, "good. Very good. Are...are you alright?"

Natasha smiled but didn't open her eyes. "I'm alright," she assured him. "Tired?"

"Quite...I've gotta go back to the couch."

"If you want to," she muttered drowsily. "Otherwise you could stay the night."

"If you don't mind?"

"I don't mind." Natasha snaked an arm around his waist and pressed a kiss against the side of his neck. "Stay."

"Hmm'kay." Sherlock agreed sleepily, letting himself relax yet again at the prospect of not moving from his comfortable entwinement. He was safe, and he trusted his new companion. It appears she trusted him too, and that was surprising to say the least. Giving up any more thoughts, he inhaled deeply and surrendered to a nightmare-less sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Morning dawned, and Sherlock had taken longer than he would admit to figure out what had happened. Good memories, but he was a bit confused. Still, he'd stored the experience in his Mind Palace carefully. He wanted to delete quite a bit from his six month execution, but not that. Not the time with Natasha Romanoff.

They spent several days laying low. Both from the gang that was likely still searching for him as well as the individuals out for her. He actually found he enjoyed the time in companionable silence, engaging in conversation over dinner or to keep the boredom at bay. They'd discussed cases, and missions, speaking in both Russian and English as they shared a bit of their history and life. Naturally leaving most if not all about the hell that had been their lives in recent months.

Sherlock's infection was down, abrasions healing, ribs sore but the pain was manageable. So Natasha had made her approach again, and they got to know each other on another level several times. The intimate experience was thrilling, and remarkably good for avoiding boredom. The high was healthier than the drugs and he found it didn't compromise his head at the moment. He'd think about it later, reevaluation may need to be done.

Eventually, Sherlock had contacted Mycroft again. And soon the British Government was sending a private plane to pick him up.

Natasha got him safely to the small airport on the outskirts of Paris. She'd said she'd come to England. But she didn't say how long or when, enigmatic as usual. Sherlock wasn't holding out hope he'd see her again, she was a spy after all. A master assassin on the run. Maybe she didn't want to get involved. It was perfectly understandable.

At the tarmac, he kissed her. It wasn't something they'd done outside of a means to an end, this time was more of a goodbye and a thank you. And he'd surprised himself, the softness and gentleness of it. With a meaningful look and a Russian 'until we meet again', he squeezed her hand and let her go.

He had time to think on the one hour and ten minute flight back to London, and he spent most of it with his hands steepled and in complete silence. He wasn't mindful of his appearance, the short hair, the now usual leather jacket over a cheap button-up and dark jeans. That was all window dressing at this point. He was alive, and hopefully staying that way. He had a best friend and family to see after all, a brother to annoy, and hopefully work to get back to.

Once the plane pulled to a stop after landing, and the stairs were down, Sherlock Holmes descended and got his booted feet on English ground for the first time in six months.

Mycroft was waiting for him beside the usual black car, wearing the customary three-piece suit along with leather gloves and a coat. He eyed his brother quickly before taking the necessary steps to close the gap between them.

"Brother dear," he greeted. "The British Government has deemed it fit to exercise their Royal Prerogative of Mercy," he announced, jumping into business as usual first. "What would've been your punishment has been commuted. You're a free man." He gestured towards the car. "I trust you'll be resuming your previous work?"

Sherlock eyed his brother, and then the car. "Yes, I think I will." He said impassively, fixing clear blue eyes on Mycroft again and putting his hands in his pockets. "Thank the British Government for me, would you? I can't imagine the steps that had to be taken for that.…exercise."

"No. You can't," Mycroft confirmed, walking over to the car himself, fully expecting Sherlock to follow. "No need to discuss it, however. I assume you've learnt your lesson." He spared another brief glance for his brother over his shoulder and frowned. "We'll discuss the rest inside the car."

"Naturally." Sherlock quipped as he followed along just a second after Mycroft glanced back. He was far too tired to do any sort of serious resistance or petulance. Upon them both buckling into the back seat and the car's departure from the airport runway, Sherlock let himself relax and turned his head to watch the outside. "You got what you needed from the email, I'm sure." He commented after a moment.

"Of course." Mycroft set his umbrella beside him on the leather seat. "It was also instrumental in securing your pardon, so it served a dual purpose." His eyes zeroed in on his brother with a disapproving look. "Now tell me what, exactly, you've been doing these last few days. I trust the mission was over once you sent the information, and I'm detecting signs of... female companionship." He said the last with a hint of distaste. "I do hope you haven't gone and done something foolish."

Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh, turning back from the window to meet the look. "I come back, basically from the dead, _again._ And you're going to lecture me about how I spent my recovery time? Last time I checked, I don't answer to you."

"You do, in fact, answer to me," Mycroft retorted. "It is my priority to keep you safe, and not just you. I've got people watching your little friends too, so forgive me if I'm wary of adding yet another to the list."

"If you can pin her down to watch, I'd take the knighthood you keep offering." Sherlock sassed. "She's not moving in, and we're not…together. She saved my life, you should be _thanking_ her."

"Should I?" Mycroft asked skeptically. "Then perhaps I really should meet her after all," he prodded. "Can I expect her to drop by for tea and biscuits?"

"Probably not." Sherlock said, turning eyes back to the window. "She's on the run as well. I extended an offer anyways."

"Did you now?" Mycroft's disapproving eyes didn't leave his brother. "I'm almost afraid to ask what sort of offer." He paused, and when he spoke again his tone was just a tiny bit gentler. "I... _am_ grateful you are back, Sherly. And this woman, whoever or _whatever_ she may be... I'm grateful to her too, if she did indeed help bring you back." He paused again. "I'm also grateful you weren't alone."

"Did I miss Christmas again? Has it really been that long?" Sherlock sassed, effectively ruining the moment. Whatever minuscule bit of a moment there may have been. "S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, by the way. Haven't you been…doing whatever it is that you do with that mess?"

"I've been monitoring the situation," Mycroft said evasively. "And if she is in fact a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, ex or otherwise, then I am fairly certain I already know who she is." His tone turned serious. "I hope you realize she's not merely running away from old enemies, she is also running away from the authorities. If caught, I'm afraid she _will_ need to stand trial."

"Yes, I know." Sherlock retorted quickly.

Mycroft had lapsed into a thoughtful pause. "Perhaps if we offered her asylum she'd be willing to defect one more time..." He glanced at his brother. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to negotiate with her?"

Sherlock's hand clenched and he glanced back. "I can negotiate, but on _my_ terms. I'm not playing puppet for you."

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you're being difficult." It was Mycroft's turn to cast his eyes out the window. "I'll be sure to run whatever terms and conditions I see fit by you before I decide on an offer." He paused. "That being said, if I find your objections unreasonable I'll simply take over negotiations myself. This is a rare opportunity, after all."

"Taking into account that she _will_ come here, and then want to defect to your government, and then listen to you after you'd yanked me from the negotiation, of course? Have fun with that." Sherlock spat back. "Could be dangerous, I'll make the tea, would be so exciting to watch."

"Tone down the hostilities will you, little brother? If you weren't so emotionally invested already, you'd agree with me." Mycroft heaved a long suffering sigh. "I'll trust you to do whatever you feel is necessary for the time being. Do let me know what she says."

"I'm _not_ emotionally invested." Sherlock argued petulantly, crossing his arms. Time to change the subject, quickly. "I need to see John. Did you tell him I was due back?"

Mycroft raised a brow at his brother's argument, but answered his question nevertheless. "No, I thought perhaps you really did want to jump out of a cake this time," he sassed. "I have a baker on call if that's the case."

"Of course you do, your usual baker then? The one on speed dial." Sherlock retorted, already making plans to visit John at home. "Doughnut in hand is a bit of a compromising position, brother dear."

"No more compromising than getting _involved_ with a spy," Mycroft shot back with narrowed eyes. "Mine is the less lethal option, albeit slightly fattening. I'll take one over the other."

"I'm not involved." Sherlock insisted again, meeting the narrowed look with one of his own. "I spend barely a week with someone and you're acting like I've proposed or something ridiculous like that. Oh, forgot to mention, we're expecting. You're going to be an uncle, aren't you excited?"

"You barely spent a day with John Watson before you were out solving crimes together," Mycroft pointed out. "A week, brother mine, is no small amount of time. Not for you, and if I had to venture a guess, not for her. A week is adequate. I'm simply looking out for your best interests... and mine of course," he added. "If she's equally invested in you, she might be easier to convince."

"Sure you are." Sherlock said with a little huff, crossing his arms. He asked. "And if she doesn't accept?"

"Why? Worried I'll turn her in?" Mycroft prodded. "If she doesn't accept, there simply isn't much I can do. I doubt I have anyone in my employ that could catch her and even if they did, I'm not certain we could contain her for very long." He paused. "So there's no need to worry, little brother."

"I'm not worried, just curious." Sherlock amended quickly. "Whatever, just do your thingy and I'll go through it, she wasn't planning on heading out anywhere for a couple of days anyway. First order of business is stopping by to see John, if you wouldn't mind."

"Not at all," Mycroft replied. "I'll have to skip the reunion, however. Important business to attend to, what with this whole business in South Africa... which you need know nothing about." He pulled out his phone and typed out a text. "Give my regards to Doctor Watson."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock spent the remainder of the drive in silence. Truth be told, he was grateful to see Mycroft again, in the sense that he'd missed the snarking. Nevertheless, the car dropped him off in front of the Watsons' suburban house and he left Mycroft with a promise to meet again later in the week.

Their car was out front, it was late afternoon, so it was likely they were both home. Hesitating on the pavement, he adjusted his clothes momentarily and ruffled his short hair. Purposeful steps lead him to their front door, and he knocked three times. Stepping back, Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and waited, tampering down the slight nervousness.

"Coming!" John called from inside the house while he hustled to finish changing the baby's nappy. "Alright," he spoke once he finished. "No fussing now. Let's see who it is." He picked up his baby girl and climbed down the stairs, calling out to let Mary know they had company.

He stopped and shifted the baby to one arm so he could open the door, and blinked at the person he found on the other side. A beat later he smiled wide. "Sherlock."

"Hello John." Sherlock said, the corners of his mouth raising into a mirroring wide smile. "May I come in? Or is this a bad time?" He glanced at the baby with a soft expression but turned eyes back towards John. "Perhaps I should have called ahead."

"No, no," John answered quickly. "It's fine." He stepped aside to let Sherlock inside the house. "Just a normal day here. New normal, I suppose. You look..." He took in his jeans, shirt and leather jacket. "Odd."

"Haven't been home yet." Sherlock said, by way of explanation as he slipped into the house. He stopped in the living room and took a quick look around, deducing. He offered another smile. "You look well, if a bit sleep deprived, but I suppose that's to be expected with an infant."

"Josina Marie Sherlock Watson," John introduced with a proud smile. "Mary and I have been taking turns, but she's a restless one. I suppose the name fits." He dropped to sit on the couch with a short laugh. "D'you want to hold her?"

Sherlock hesitated, his expression just a bit wary, but he moved to sit on the couch next to John. "Is that…safe? Won't she do that…cry thing?"

"That depends," John said dubiously, as if suddenly reconsidering his offer. " _Have_ you ever held a baby before? I have a hard time forming a mental picture."

"Um…no." Sherlock said, eyeing Josina again. "There may have been a cousin…or something when I was young. I deleted it."

Josina giggled, and John looked down at her with an adoring smile. "Well, now's a good a time as any to try again," he decided. "With me here to supervise and all." He looked up and shifted Josina in his arms. "Think you can handle that?"

"I've handled worse." Sherlock said dubiously. A slow shift of the baby and suddenly he was holding her. His attention was intensely focused on this little life in his loose arms. She wiggled and blinked up at him, before giving him a open mouthed smile and a wave of her arms. He was hesitant, but felt an odd growth of…affection for her. He cleared his throat and said, very professionally. "Hello."

Josina made as if to grab him and John let out a quiet chuckle. "There, you see? You're doing fine. Before you know it you'll be well on your way to becoming a full blown baby sitter," he joked.

Sherlock turned an apprehensive and surprised expression to John, attempting to see if he was joking or not. He couldn't tell, but let it go. "Right." He nodded once, relaxing back into the couch and keeping a gentle hold of the baby. "You know, Sherlock is not actually a girl's name, I did make that up."

"I thought as much," John chuckled. "It fits her, though," he added. "And Mary liked it." He cast a quick look towards the stairs. "Should be out of her shower soon, actually. She'll be happy to see you." He paused. "How are you?"

"I'm alive." Sherlock said, offering another smile and turning his attention back to the baby. "Which is a good thing to be. I might need to visit my doctor at some point. I turned down a trip to the one Mycroft has on staff. I never liked him."

"With good reason, I reckon," John replied. "I'm available whenever you are," he added. "Mary's taking a bit of time off, but I'm still working." He cleared his throat. "Will you be working? I mean, circumstances being what they are…"

"I've been pardoned." Sherlock interrupted. "So yes, I'll get back to work as soon as I can. If you're interested, I have need of a blogger."

"I haven't written a thing in six months," John confessed. "Except to announce Josina's birth, but other than that nothing else." He leaned forward with clasped hands and rested his elbows on his knees. "We've missed you, you know. Wasn't sure I was ever going to see you again, but Mary was hopeful. Probably would've gone after you if you hadn't shown up."

"That I would have liked to see." Sherlock said with a thoughtful smile, despite the fact that she would have been too late. Curious the similarities between Mary and Natasha…he'd think about that later. "Still, I'm back now. Back to stay."

"Right," John answered, the slightest bit of doubt creeping into his voice. It was understandable, considering. He's lost his friend twice already. "We've got an inbox full of cases, then. We'll need to pick and choose."

"John?" Mary called on her way over and stopped to greet Sherlock with a warm smile. "It's so good to see you."

Sherlock greeted her with a smile, but didn't move off the couch, afraid of making Josina cry or whatever it was that babies did. "Mary, you look well."

"And you look odd," she replied with a short laugh. "It's not just the clothes either. What's the matter with you?"

John glanced at his best friend. "Might just be the baby in his arms," he joked.

Mary didn't look all that convinced but let it go. "She's not fussing," she commented with another happy smile. "I think we found our babysitter."

"I told him as much," John replied in the same joking tone he'd used before.

"I think I'll pass…work, you know." Sherlock insisted. "Not my area."

"Heard that before." Mary touched John's shoulder and squeezed it gently. "Can I get you two anything? You look a bit peckish, Sherlock."

"I'm fine. But I wouldn't mind a cup of tea." Sherlock answered, his eyes widening as Josina squirmed again.

"I wouldn't mind a cup either," John told Mary, but turned his attention toward Sherlock when she turned for the kitchen, reaching out to gently take Josina out of his arms before she did start fussing. "Come here, you," he spoke while cradling her in his arms. "You're scaring Sherlock."

"I'm not scared." Sherlock insisted, using his now free hands to smooth down his shirt.

"Yes you are." Mary called from the kitchen. Several minutes later, she returned with a tray full of tea and biscuits. "You just came back today?"

"From Paris, yes." Sherlock answered, reaching for a cup and saucer and then leaning back again. "I'll be headed back to Baker Street later this evening."

"You do look like you need a bit of rest," John commented once he'd picked up his own cup. "Bad trip, was it?"

"Something like that." Sherlock said evasively. "I think I'm going to wait a couple days before taking a case. Settle in, you know."

John raised his brows. "Sherlock Holmes taking a day off," he spoke in teasing surprise. "Never thought I'd see the day."

Mary settled in and took a delicate sip of her tea. "Must've been a very bad trip, then," she commented. "It's good to have you back."

Sherlock glanced between the three of them, reaching a hand to gently touch Josina's small foot. "It's good to be back."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock's visit with John and Mary hadn't been too much longer, as his exhaustion was catching up with him. Mostly just small talk and discussing the baby, he didn't go into any great detail about his time abroad, or the fact that he hadn't been planning on surviving it.

The next six days found Sherlock sleeping more often than not. He'd gone to see John at the clinic, and without being too specific, had his injuries checked out again. John was noticeably upset about it, but didn't prod too much. Instead he prescribed more sleep, painkillers for the ribs, and another antibiotic for the slight infection.

Sherlock hadn't taken a case that required him to leave the flat. He solved forty-three by email, and twenty-six by a phone, and ignored the rest. It had been enough for now, but he was ready to get back out there. In between Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson, and John and Mary, Sherlock had plenty of company. Not a bad thing, but he felt a bit odd being home again.

Mycroft had stopped by as well, to discuss the chance that his savior would come visit. That meeting had been less hostile now that Sherlock was recovered and getting plenty of sleep. Sherlock hadn't been ready to murder the British Government, and Mycroft had gotten a bit of what he wanted.

Sherlock had done quite a lot of thinking as well. About Natasha specifically. Maybe Mycroft had been right, maybe he was 'getting involved' or 'emotionally invested' or whatever phrase was. But it was natural, wasn't it? She saved his life, and kept him alive. Besides, she wasn't an idiot, and hadn't jumped to the 'freak' conclusion that so many do. He…appreciated her.

Still, he had to compartmentalize if he wanted to work. So he did as he'd done for decades already. Under the assumption that it was likely he wasn't going to see her again, he boxed all those compromising feelings and got back to his usual life.

The days progressed and a week after landing in England he was ready to be _Sherlock Holmes_ again. Currently he was dressed in his usual suit and playing the violin by the window, for lack of anything else to do. The song he played was something of his own creation, something he'd been composing since he arrived home last week. It was a slightly melancholy piece in A minor, with a hopeful undertone in a higher countermelody that took over the lower notes as it progressed. His eyes were closed and his fingers light on the instrument as he let himself get taken in by the music.

Natasha listened quietly while leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. She'd gotten to work shortly after Sherlock's departure, tying up loose ends in Paris and contacting both Clint and Steve to let them know she was still alive. She'd gotten messages from both about the possibility of of Loki's Chitauri scepter being in Hydra's possession, and the need for her to return as soon as possible. She'd promised she would, but she needed to make one more stop along the way.

Sherlock had thrown a bit of a curveball into her plans. She hadn't anticipated she'd enjoy his company quite as much as she did, but she knew there was only so much she could offer him in return. She couldn't move in with him. She couldn't settle down. She couldn't have a family, or even a 'normal' relationship for that matter. Sherlock didn't seem to want those things from her which made him even more appealing, but she was wary of allowing herself hope.

So she'd done away with any and all expectations, and settled on taking things as they came. Opening her eyes and drawing a deep breath, she pushed herself off the wall and quietly made her way up the stairs. "Sherlock Holmes," she greeted with a soft smile from the doorway. "You're looking better."

Sherlock smiled and opened his eyes. He lowered the violin and turned around to face his unexpected but completely welcome guest. "Natasha Romanoff." He greeted with a smile of his own. "Accurate observation, I am well on the road to a complete recovery, thanks to you." He pointed at her with the bow, and then stepped to put the precious instrument away. "Have a seat, would you like anything?"

"Depends on what you're offering," Natasha replied on her way to John's chair. She dropped the small overnight bag she'd brought with her on the floor next to it, and settled in with a graceful cross of her legs. "Coffee. Tea. Wine," she listed possibilities. "What are your plans for the rest of the day?"

"No plans yet." Sherlock said, hesitating but heading towards the kitchen to start the coffee maker. "Was planning on taking a private case either today or tomorrow, but it's flexible. Should I ask how long you're staying?"

"Probably not," Natasha replied, enigmatic as ever. "But I'm here for now, and all yours if you want me." She turned in John's chair so she could watch him move around the kitchen over the back. "I'll even go on that case with you if you ask nicely."

Sherlock glanced at her. "Case tomorrow then, we'll play the rest of your stay by ear." He paused. "My brother wanted to speak to you, by the way. If you're as good as I think you are, you probably know what about. I'm leaving that up to you."

Natasha felt her lips lift at the corner and looked away. "I'll think about it," she promised. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Sherlock asked.

"Do you want something from me?" Natasha's tone was curious. "Aside from my company, I mean."

Sherlock paused to think as he made the coffee in their respective preferences, keeping his eyes on the mugs. "I believe your company, in any way you wish, is most important to me. To be honest, I wasn't completely sure I was going to see you again."

"I did say I'd come." Natasha cast a hesitant glance his way. "I can't make promises about the length of time or the regularity... but if you want me to, I could keep coming back."

Sherlock didn't reply until he'd handed her the coffee mug and sat down in his own chair. "I would like that." He said at last. "No promise about where I'm at in a case, or how busy I'll be, but I would…enjoy having you around."

Natasha winked. "That works for me," she lifted the mug he'd placed in her hands to her lips. "I take it things are back to normal for you, then?"

"I'm getting there. Back to normal. Once I start working again, it'll feel more that way, I suppose." He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "And you? I trust the rest of your time in Paris was effective."

"It was," Natasha confirmed. "I contacted two of my teammates too, so I might be heading back to New York in the near future." She paused. "There is a slight chance I might have to stand trial."

"I'll help break you out, if the need arises."

"My knight in shining armor," Natasha teased. "Would I have to start calling you Prince Charming?"

Sherlock crinkled his nose. "Please don't."

Natasha kept her amusement at his reaction off her face. "I've never been a fan of nicknames, but I think I might just have make an exception for you." She sat back and gave him a quick but appreciative once over. "I like you in a suit."

"You liked me in a leather jacket as well." Sherlock noted with a raised brow. "And the tux, if my deductions are correct."

"They all have their appeal," Natasha confirmed. "I also liked you wearing nothing at all," she added with a cheeky smile. "Problem?"

"None at all." He replied, tapping his fingers on the side of his cup thoughtfully. "Am I supposed to say 'thank you' here? I'm not exactly sure how to respond."

"As far as I'm concerned, you don't have to." Natasha smiled softly and lowered her eyes to her coffee. "I just wanted you to know." She leaned over to set her cup down on the small table beside John's chair and stood up. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to take a shower," she announced. "You're welcome to join me... unless you'd like to do some thinking, in which case I'll leave you to it."

Sherlock sat in quiet debate, until he cleared his throat and stood. "I'll…join you, I think. There's no reason to not."

"You're under no obligation," Natasha felt the need to add. "I do want you that way and you know that already, but I understand if your thoughts are somewhere else." She paused to study him as if recommitting his features to memory. "I _have_ missed you."

"I don't do anything I don't want to do." Sherlock reiterated, stepping up to her. Close, but not touching. "My thoughts are nowhere else at the moment, there's nothing to think about. But I do appreciate your understanding in the future."

"Of course." Natasha held his gaze for a long moment before she curved a hand behind his neck and drew him down for a kiss. Like the one before he'd boarded a plane to England, it was soft and gentle. Not a means to an end, but a promise of understanding and a show of gratitude.

Sherlock was still relatively new to this sort of contact, but he reacted immediately. His arms wrapped around her and drew her closer, burying fingers in her soft hair. It wasn't very long kiss, but he breathed in deeply when they parted. "Hmm, there was something about a shower, right?"

"There was," Natasha confirmed, kissing him one more time before she reluctantly untangled herself from his arms. "Where should I leave my bag?"

"Back this way." Sherlock said, stepping around her to lead the way to the bedroom, neat and tidy at the moment. "The shower is big enough for two, and it's been a long time since I've had specimens in it, so we'll be fine."

Natasha picked up her bag and followed him through the hallway, finally setting it down on the bed to have a look around his room. Her eyes swept over every wall and every surface, lips quirked at the corner upon seeing the framed Periodic Table partially hidden behind the door. "Should I expect to find specimens hidden in every corner while I'm here?"

"Not _every_ corner." Sherlock insisted, moving to the wardrobe to undress. "Just some of them. Don't eat anything that's not labeled and dated as something edible. John made that mistake several times."

"I think I'll just get take out." Natasha removed the trench coat she'd thrown over her dress and heels, and walked over to wrap her arms around him from behind. Quick fingers found the top button of his shirt and she began undoing them blindly but skillfully, one by one. "Know any good take out places around here?"

"Several, and I usually eat for free." Sherlock said, lowering his hands to let her work on undoing his shirt. "We'll go to Angelo's tonight, I think. Italian, I got him off of a murder charge."

"Would that be considered our first official date?" Natasha tugged his shirt out of his trousers to undo the last few buttons and came around to stand between him and his wardrobe. Leaving his shirt open without removing it, her hands went to his trousers next. "Or does taking down a human trafficking ring count? I don't have much experience with that sort of thing outside of work."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. "Neither do I, but if the human trafficking ring was the first one, I definitely enjoyed it as far as first dates go." He paused, looking her over. "A date is when two people who like each other go out, yes?"

Natasha met his eyes. "Yeah, broadly speaking," she confirmed, sliding his trousers off his hips before trailing her hands upwards over his chest until they reached his shoulders. "And if that's the case..." she tugged his shirt down his arms, "I think we've had a few dates already."

"Broadly speaking, yes I believe we have." Sherlock watched her with the usual soft focus, and once his shirt was gone, moved his hands towards her. He brought her in, reaching for the zip of her dress. "What does that make us then?"

"Complicated." Natasha's tone was as soft as her smile. "But I don't need a label if you don't," she added, leaning in to brush her lips down his neck. "Right now I just need you."

"You can have me." Sherlock said, his eyes closing and his head tilting slightly back purely on instinct. He found this completely odd and totally out of his comfort zone, but he was also quite sure he didn't Sherlock Holmes got attached to someone, it happened quickly and fiercely. His hands unzipped her dress and then pushed it off of her shoulders.

Natasha stepped out of her dress when it fell to the floor and moved forward so close the space between their bodies. Her lips found his one more time and she spoke against them. "Shower?"

"That was the idea…" Sherlock whispered back.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock and Natasha thoroughly explored their new arrangement. There was nothing to be distracted from, so they allowed themselves to focus solely on each other the rest of the day. Fortunately, no one stopped by the flat that day, even Mrs Hudson was out visiting her sister. Come evening, when Natasha expressed a need to eat, they got dressed and took a cab to Angelo's for a late dinner.

The next morning, Sherlock awoke to an empty place where Natasha had slept next to him and a note saying she had something to do and would be back later. Enigmatic as ever, and he took a moment to attempt to deduce what she needed to do in London.

The call from John hadn't been expected, but it had been welcome. John had assured him that it was, in fact, a case that could be interesting. Sherlock didn't hold out too much hope, John's scale of interesting cases was a bit off. But, he'd wanted to get out anyways, might as well humor his friend. Besides an easy one to get back into the game might just be what he needed.

Upon arriving at the clinic, he walked into the exam room to meet John and the client. The client was male, average height and weight, single and early to mid twenties. Engineer, if Sherlock's initial deduction was correct. And currently missing his left thumb, if the bandage said anything. It had to have been recent, and it had to have been nearby, otherwise the man would have gone to the A&E. Sherlock's usual deduction took less than a second and he then greeted John with a nod. "Hello."

"Sherlock." John said, glancing up from his desk and tapping his pen briefly. "This is Victor Hatherley. Victor, this is Sherlock Holmes. I think he can help you out."

Victor shifted in his chair and nodded his head in greeting. "Mr. Holmes," he said in a strained voice. "I'm not really sure where to start."

"Just tell him what you told me," John told him calmly. "From the beginning."

"Right," Victor said hesitantly. "Well, there was this man. Lysander Stark, he said his name was. He was having a bit of trouble with with a press he said he used to make decorative bricks." He glanced at John. "Which I thought was odd, you know, but I needed the money. And I really need-" He caught himself mid ramble. "He offered to pay me straight away, so I went over to take a look."

"And in the process you…" Sherlock tilted his head slightly to regard the man again. Deductions, and the answer flashed in his head. "It seems that you lost your thumb in the press after a closer inspection and some sort of accident, perhaps meant to kill you, more likely meant to warn you. There are a number of possibilities about what the press actually does, I'll narrow it down, oh!…counterfeiters then. Dangerous business. Come on, John. There's no time." He was already headed towards the door.

Victor blinked at Sherlock's retreating form while John rose hastily from his chair. "He does that," he explained to their client. "Come on, then. Can't leave you here."

"But how did he..."

"Really, there's no time," John interrupted. "Counterfeiters might be packing up to leave by now."

Natasha was waiting outside John's clinic with a cup of coffee in her hand, and a trench coat thrown over a black blouse, skinny jeans, and knee high boots. Her aviators sat on the bridge of her nose, allowing her to study the people walking by without giving herself away.

She'd finished her business in London late enough that she arrived to find an empty flat upon returning to 221B. She was forced to track Sherlock down using her usual methods. Stopping for coffee on her way over to John's clinic, she reasoned it was better to wait outside and let him finish whatever business he had with his friend.

Sherlock walked right outside, his Belstaff flaring behind him. Clear blue eyes fixed on her as he approached to walk by. "Come along, we're on a case. Time is of the essence."

Natasha pushed herself off the wall and started walking. "Yes sir," she quipped.

John and Victor were out a moment later, the former pulling on his usual black coat, and the latter still holding his bandaged hand close to his torso. John called as he stepped out quickly. "Sherlock, wait up!"

"Hurry up, I need a location." Sherlock said, slowing and glancing behind him.

"Um…take a right here." Victor said, his tone still betraying his confusion.

Natasha half turned to sweep her eyes over the two men hastily shadowing Sherlock's footsteps. "John Watson," she greeted, flashing her most beguiling smile. "We finally meet."

"I'm..." John blinked at her several times and turned towards Sherlock, who'd walked way ahead with Victor on his tail while he and Natasha had inadvertently lagged behind. Natasha followed his eyes to the two men and deposited her newly emptied cup of coffee in a trash can, following at her own quick pace. John scrambled to keep up. "I'm not sure we _have_ met."

"Sure we have. We met just now," she teased. "Now, where are we going?"

"There's a house." Victor said breathlessly as he followed the detective. "I didn't get an address, they drove me there in a car…but-"

"Directions only, I already know what happened, no need to ramble." Sherlock interrupted with a wave of his hand, not bothering to look behind him.

"It's straight for another block, and then a left." Victor said, visibly trying not to be offended by Sherlock's manner. "It's the last house on the street, brick with maple trees out front."

"Should we call the police?" John asked, having caught up to Natasha.

"Well," Natasha spared the briefest of glances for Victor, "considering he's lost his thumb and we're on our way to find whoever's responsible... I'm going to assume this isn't going to be a simple civil dispute," she said. "Someone's going to want to press charges here."

"Of course I'm pressing charges!" Victor exclaimed. "I'm an engineer. I work with my hands. This is..."

Natasha stopped listening. "Call them in," she told John.

"Right." John said, pursing his lips as he pulled out his phone. He gave her an almost wary look, amplified by his confusion. Another beat and he was putting the phone to his ear. "Greg?"

Sherlock led the way, taking the specified turn. If all went as expected, he'd get the evidence, solve the case and the police would be there to clean up the mess within the hour. Home in time for lunch.

John hung up the phone a moment later. "They're on their way, he's bringing the theft unit. Greg specified not doing anything rash, Sherlock."

"Relax John, it'll be fine." Sherlock said, spying the house and lengthening his stride. "I just want to get a good look. Besides the police are too slow."

Natasha cast her eyes over a concerned-looking John behind her sunglasses. "Are we assuming these people, whoever they are, are still inside the building?" she asked.

"I... I don't know." Victor was panting, but doing his best to keep up with Sherlock's longer strides. "I left as quick as I could. I was running for my life!"

"Sherlock," Natasha called, speeding up her pace to catch up with him. "Not that I think you'll need it," she said so only he could hear, "but I'm assuming you're properly armed? Because if not, I'm more than happy to share."

"Of course I am." Sherlock said, patting the outside of his coat. He'd slowed his steps just before they reached the house's front open area, which really couldn't be called a garden or yard. "John's not though, he doesn't take his to work on a regular basis. If you have an extra..."

"Sherlock, we should wait for Greg." John said, lowering his voice as he stopped behind Sherlock and Natasha. He glanced at their client, who's face had set in a serious but apprehensive expression.

Sherlock let out a sigh, and shifted just to the side as he tried to get a better look at the house without being too inconspicuous. He sniffed the air once, placing the subtle smell as smoke from the chimney. Which was odd…because it was nearly July. It meant… "We have to go inside now. They're going to burn the building down, Lestrade won't be here in time. Evidence, we need evidence to convict."

"We have to what…?" John asked, but Sherlock was already striding towards the building. He let out a short sigh, glancing over at Natasha again before looking at the engineer again.

Natasha opened her trench coat to covertly retrieve one of her guns and stepped up close to John so she could hand it over, grip first. "One of my favorites. Be kind." She glanced at Sherlock. "Go," she urged. "I'll stay here with our buddy..."

"Victor," the man supplied with a nervous shuffling of his feet.

"With our buddy Victor," she concluded with a bright smile.

John blinked at Natasha a second after he was suddenly in possession of a gun. He opened his mouth to speak, shutting it quickly and huffing out his nose.

The consulting detective himself was already running for the building. Whether that was a good idea or not was up for debate because the glow of a fire was already shining through one window. A second later John ran after his friend. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock burst into the front door, gun in hand. His eyes sweeping the room. "Back room, John. Fire's started over there," he pointed, "search for the press."

"Right." John marched over and pushed his way inside, gun ready. Smoke immediately clouded his vision and coaxed a cough past his lips, but he moved forward. "Sherlock!" He called out again. "In here. I think I found it!"

Sherlock came running over quickly, coughing as well. But he followed John inside. "Alright…we need…" he spotted a laptop, very near to where the fire would be any moment, 'that!" Recklessly, he pushed aside a burning desk to get to the laptop that was connected with the press. It would be good for prints, and any other information they might be able to glean.

"Alright now let's go," John said hurriedly after taking a few short steps after his friend. "Because the building is on fire, Sherlock. I'd prefer it if we survived this." He reached out to pull Sherlock with him. "What about the men?"

"Gone by now, but I'm almost certain she'll get at least one of them on the way out." Sherlock said, a smirk on his face even as John pulled him towards the door. He let out a cough and then increased his pace for the exit. "Let's go."

"And by 'she' you mean the still nameless redhead who lent me her gun," John sought clarification while coughing his way through the statement and on their way out of the burning house.

"Yep." Sherlock said breathlessly, but there was a smirk as they stepped into the clear air.

* * *

 **Authors' note:** This case is an interpretation of Arthur Conan Doyle's _The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb_.Also we'd like to thank those that have favorited/followed and especially reviewed! Settle back and enjoy the ride, because this is going to be a long one. Stay tuned for more! :)


	10. Chapter 10

Natasha looked up as Sherlock and John exited the burning house, making sure to keep a tight hold on the man she'd caught sneaking out the back. He was kneeling on the sidewalk, sporting a fresh cut on his face. "Hello boys," she greeted casually. "No sign of the police just yet, but I made a new friend."

"I noticed." Sherlock said with a smirk, taking in deep breaths now that they were well away from the smoke. He still held the laptop in one hand, reaching the other to ruffle his hair. The distant sound of sirens met his ears and he nodded once. "Nice work, this was rather fun wasn't it."

"I wouldn't say that." Victor quipped from a few feet away. His expression was wary, like he didn't want to be there anymore.

"It _was_ fun," Natasha confirmed. "I could go for a bite to eat now, too. I'm starving." Her eyes turned towards John and she smiled again. "I'd like my gun back too."

"Yes, of course." John moved quickly, approaching her with a wary look to return the weapon.

Natasha straightened and put it away while keeping one hand on the man she'd captured. "Thank you, doctor," she quipped.

Two police cars along with the fire brigade pulled up in front of the building and there was a sudden flurry of activity. Uniformed men filed out to take care of the fire, while officers made sure to keep the gathering crowd at bay. Detective Inspector Lestrade elbowed his way over and headed straight for Sherlock after a quick look up at the building. "What've you got for me?"

"One counterfeiter ready to arrest, he was caught fleeing the fire behind me, from the looks of him he's below average and will make a full confession if you pressure him just a bit. One witness to your right, engineer that's short a thumb and more than ready to not be in our presence anymore. Also one laptop which has the programming software that enabled said counterfeiter to counterfeit. And lastly, one burning building, that's consuming any and all other evidence, but I'm confident what I have will convict your perpetrators without any doubt." Sherlock relayed calmly as he offered the laptop to Lestrade. "Now, I believe I have a lunch date."

Natasha bit back a smile. "I'll hail down a cab."

Lestrade took the computer in his hands, used to Sherlock fast talking through his explanations after so many years working with the man. He eyed the engineer before turning his eyes to the man still kneeling on the pavement, and the redhead holding him in place. He stepped over and stretched out his hand with a friendly smile. "Greg Lestrade," he introduced himself.

"A pleasure, I'm sure," Natasha replied once she'd torn her eyes away from Sherlock to take Lestrade's hand. "I'm assuming you've got this under control?"

"Hm?" Lestrade shook himself out of his momentary daze. "Yeah, of course. Yes." He took his hand back and turned away. "Donovan!"

Natasha stepped back to tie her trench coat closed. "Shall we, then?"

"I think we shall." Sherlock said, dusting his coat off for a moment. He gave a single nod and offered a small but brief smile to Natasha before saying, "Come along John, we're relatively close to a nice Chinese place. The owner always gives me extra portions."

John's jaw had dropped slightly and he blinked a couple times. "Sherlock, wh-"

But he was interrupted by Sherlock, who turned clear blue eyes his way. "You haven't had lunch yet, and your next appointment isn't until 1:15, plenty of time for something to eat. Besides, you have questions."

"You could say that." John said, glancing at Natasha again. He looked over his shoulder at Lestrade and Donovan, who were already going over the events with Victor near one of the police cars. "Fine, let's go to lunch."

Natasha wordlessly hailed a cab and it was only a few minutes before they arrived at the Chinese place Sherlock had instructed the cabbie to take them to. John kept his questions to himself on the way over, limiting his curiosity to short glances and shakes of his head. Natasha settled for pushing her sunglasses up to her head and watching the passing buildings.

It was only once they were sitting at a table and looking through the options that John lowered his menu and clasped his hands on top. He gave Sherlock a pointed look and tipped his head in Natasha's direction. "Alright. Explain."

Sherlock clasped his hands on the table and fixed his eyes on John. "John, meet Natasha." Natasha looked up and did a little wave at the introduction before going back to her menu. "We crossed paths couple weeks ago. She saved my life in Paris, and is now here in London to visit for a few days. I'm not sure what else you need explained."

John opened and closed his mouth once before he could find the words to speak again. "Is she your..." He trailed off, wary of using the word. "Friend or something? I mean, you don't usually have people over for visits." He eyed Natasha again. "Certainly not people that look like her and carry a gun."

Sherlock quirked a brow. "Yes, I suppose she's my friend." He said after a moment. "And what do you mean 'people that look like her'? I'm confused."

"I mean yes there's people that look like her, but not people that look like her _and_ carry a gun and stay with you," John tried to explain. "I mean she's..." Natasha looked up and he gestured at her face before giving up with a sigh. He rubbed his forehead. "This is Janine all over again, isn't it?"

Natasha closed her menu and set it down with a faint smile. "Not exactly," she said.

"Not Janine." Sherlock agreed. "She's a friend here to visit, do I need to spell it out further?"

John ignored Sherlock's question with a furrowed brow and fixed his eyes on Natasha, suspicious, protective. "Who are you? Really?"

Natasha waited a beat before launching into a short explanation. "Natasha Romanoff. Previously a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Currently unemployed." She paused. "In a manner of speaking."

"Natasha Romanoff," John repeated, slowly piecing things together from what he'd seen on the news, and a stray comment here and there from Mary herself. "There was something about you on the news."

"I wasn't always a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent," she said vaguely. "Anything else?"

"She saved my life, John." Sherlock said again. "I'm not exaggerating, I wouldn't have made it out of Paris if she'd not been there."

"You came back seven days ago." John stated. "But you met her 'a couple weeks ago'. What did you do in Paris for a week?"

"Stopped a human trafficking ring." Sherlock answered immediately.

John let out a humorless laugh. "You know this sounds like another James Bond knockoff."

"James Bond could stand to learn a thing or two from me," Natasha joked with a straight face. "I'll try not to take offense."

The waitress interrupted the conversation to take their orders, and disappeared with their menus a second later. John had lapsed into thoughtful silence, and Natasha found herself stealing a peek at Sherlock before returning her eyes to John.

"I have no ulterior motives here," she felt the need to add, because evidently John was important to Sherlock and she wanted, surprisingly, to put him at ease. "I'm not manipulating him either. I'm not taking advantage. I... like him."

"Forgive me if I don't trust the word of an assassin and a spy," John said mildly.

"Okay." Natasha leaned forward and twined her hands together on top of the table. "What do you need me to say here?"

"I thought my word would be enough." Sherlock commented, earning a mildly annoyed look from John. "Besides…association with a spy, former or not, sounds considerably familiar."

"I…I just don't know, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled just a bit. "When have I been predictable?"

"Frankly, I don't think you've ever been predictable," John acknowledged with a short laugh. He eyed Natasha again, this time a little less defensive. "I suppose I can take your word for it," he told Sherlock.

John smiled a bit and Natasha smiled in return. "I did lend you my gun."

"That you did, and it's a very nice piece," John agreed. "I'll ask one last thing." He cleared his throat. "Should I or should I not start texting before I come over from now on?"

"You text most of the time anyways." Sherlock said, completely missing the point. "Why would you need to ask about it?" John looked just a bit relieved, but was cut off by Sherlock's continuation. "We _are_ sleeping together, but she's not moving in and her visits will be sporadic. Balance of probability suggests that you won't end up witnessing something you'd rather not. Though upon reevaluation, it might be wise to increase the percentage of times you text before coming to see me."

"So you two are..." John glanced between the two of them. "I mean, she's your..." He tried again and cleared his throat. "She's your girlfriend?"

"Well, I'm a woman, not a girl... but I suppose I _am_ a friend." Natasha didn't bother hiding her amusement. "Friend is as good a label as any, right?"

"If you need a label then sure…friend is fine." Sherlock, on the other hand, wasn't enjoying this conversation.

"Right." John said again, glancing between them again. He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. "Yeah, this is just weird."

"It's also something I'd rather not…be made public." Sherlock said, focusing back on John. "Which means no blogging about it."

"Same goes for me," Natasha agreed. "It's not just a preference. I'm still supposed to be off the grid."

"I wouldn't even know what to write," John told the both of them. "I barely understand what this is myself."

"This is…" Sherlock glanced over at Natasha, "…something new." He concluded, with the briefest smile. Natasha winked at Sherlock and straightened in her seat.

Their waitress came back with their food a moment later. Once she was gone, John replied. "Well then…I suppose I should thank you, Natasha." He nodded Sherlock's direction. "For putting up with and getting this one out alive."

"It was no problem at all," Natasha assured him with a tip of her head in Sherlock's direction while picking up her chopsticks. "This one happens to be good company."

"Not all of the time," John joked.

Sherlock's chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth. "I am well aware of that'." He said indignantly.

John smiled. "Should we be expecting you two over for dinner sometime? Or anything completely 'normal' like that?"

"I can do 'normal' if the occasion calls for it." Natasha popped a bite of food into her mouth. "If I'm in London, I'm on board." She glanced at Sherlock. "Up to you."

John glanced at him as well. "You two should come over for dinner at least once," he continued. "Mary won't believe me otherwise."

"Dinner's fine, I can do 'normal' if necessary." Sherlock said after a moment of contemplation. "Besides, Mary will probably like Natasha."

Natasha reached out to pick up a dumpling. "From what I hear, I think I'll like Mary too."


	11. Chapter 11

After their lunch, and John's return back to the clinic, Sherlock and Natasha went back to Baker Street. A quick text from Lestrade verified that the counterfeit gang would be apprehended and charged based on the evidence Sherlock had saved. Good news.

All in all, Sherlock was in a fantastic mood. Apparently Natasha was too, because they barely made it into the flat before she pounced. Unlike previous times, Sherlock fought her for control once they made it to the bedroom. It made for an exhilarating experience.

They spent the rest of the day talking and sitting in companionable silence. Sherlock took out the violin after they returned from a very late dinner. An hour of playing for her prompted another pounce.

Eventually, they'd fallen asleep amidst tangled sheets, not to wake until late morning. When his eyes finally opened, Sherlock still had his arm wrapped around her. Curious. He took a second to study her face, and then leaned in to kiss her softly.

Natasha pressed herself closer with a drowsy moan. "Mmm, morning," she muttered against his lips.

"We overslept." Sherlock said, slipping a hand into her messy red hair. "Want to solve crimes today?"

"I do." Natasha opened her eyes halfway and shifted drowsily so that she was half draped over his body, faces close enough that their noses bumped against each other. "Breakfast first?"

"Probably." Sherlock said, running a gentle hand up her side. Funny how naturally these sorts of interactions came about, he put that away to think about later. He tilted his head and kissed her, starting out slow but deepening as he held her close. A moment later he broke it again and smiled. "You'll have to get off of me though."

"I'm not sure I want to after a kiss like _that_ ," Natasha stole another quick kiss and reluctantly left the warmth of Sherlock's arms and bed, raking her fingers through her hair. She snagged his maroon dressing gown from behind the door. "Mind if I borrow?"

"All yours." Sherlock said, propping himself up on his elbows as he studied her. He pushed himself up a moment later to crawl out of bed himself. "Hand me the blue one." He asked as he headed for the dresser to find a pair of pants.

Natasha tied the belt around her waist and carried the blue dressing gown over to him, unabashedly sweeping her eyes over him in clear appreciation. "Coffee?"

"Appreciated." Sherlock said, seemingly unaffected by her once over, like he didn't even notice. He took the gown and threw it over his barely clothed body, not bothering to tie it. He snagged his phone from the bedside table and then followed her out to the kitchen. Ruffling his hair with one hand, while the other scrolled through emails on his phone, he leaned against the counter.

Natasha left the coffee to brew and retrieved her phone from where she'd left it counter the night before. There was only one text, but it was one she'd expected to receive later in the day. _Need you to come in as soon as possible. -Clint_

"Any interesting cases?" She asked while she read it over, mentally divvying up the rest of the day. She set the phone down and stood in front of Sherlock, lifting herself up on tiptoe to peek at the screen of his phone. "Anything above a five?"

"One…maybe." Sherlock said, fingers flying over the keyboard as he sent off a reply to that one. "There's six I can solve from here." He said, "and two that aren't worth my time. Maybe Lestrade will call."

"Maybe." Natasha lowered herself to the floor and placed her hands on her hips while she waited. "Does that mean you can spare an hour?"

"Perhaps, I need to type out the solutions to the email problems, but that can wait until I get a reply back from this one…" Sherlock said, finally lowering the phone and fixing her with a slightly confused look. "Why? Did you have a case for me instead?"

"Not a case." Natasha gently took his phone out of his hand and set it down on the counter beside him, moving in close and lifting herself up on tiptoe once more. Her arms wound around him beneath his blue robe. "But I suppose I could make a game of it for you."

"Oh? Oh." His understanding was quick, and his hands made themselves comfortable on her hips. He studied her face, blinking a couple times as he made a decision. "Or…I could just pin you against the wall, been meaning to try that."

"You could." Natasha caught his lips in a kiss that started out slow but quickly grew passionate enough that she had to pull back to draw a breath. "Pick a wall," she whispered urgently.

Sherlock leaned down again, catching her lips in a kiss as he steered them towards the hallway. He pressed her against the wall, his lips moving from hers down her neck and his hands moved over her silk dressing gown wrapped form.

Natasha tipped her head back and closed her eyes, both her hands sinking into his soft curls. Thoroughly distracted as she was, fine Italian leather shoes coming up the stairs didn't even register.

Mycroft Holmes wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when he'd let himself inside his brother's flat, but finding him in the arms of a woman who'd made a name for herself as a Black Widow was decidedly not it _._ In retrospect, it should've been perfectly obvious to him that if his brother were ever to engage in such an… activity, it _would_ be with someone like Natasha Romanoff. Clever enough to keep up. Intriguing enough to keep him entertained. And of course, he trusted her. It made perfect sense.

It didn't, however, make the situation any less awkward. He cleared his throat and averted his eyes, still looking dignified as ever in his three-piece suit while grasping the handle of his umbrella in both hands. "I should've called."

Mood effectively ruined, Sherlock stopped his ministrations on the soft skin of her neck with a sharp exhale. He took one more breath in and met Natasha's eyes before straightening up and extracting himself from his _compromising_ position. He ruffled his hair and drew the dressing gown around himself as he stared his brother down. "Good to see you, brother mine. I trust you've learnt your lesson for next time."

Mycroft straightened to his full height and met his brother's stare with a sarcastic smile. "If there is a lesson here, it's certainly not for me," he retorted.

Natasha fixed and straightened her dressing gown before moving around Sherlock towards the coffee maker. "Mycroft Holmes," she greeted along the way. "I'd say it's a pleasure, but right now it feels like exactly the opposite."

"I'm sure." Mycroft spared the briefest of glances her way, eyes narrowing briefly while attempting deductions. "I came to discuss our previous agreement, Sherlock," he told his brother. "I trust you and your... friend have had time to talk aside from defiling the walls of your flat?"

"Naturally." Sherlock said, crossing his arms. "She's due to leave soon, so if you wanted to discuss it with her yourself, she _is_ in the room."

"I'll save you the trouble," Natasha told Mycroft. "No, I won't work for you on a regular basis. No, I don't want whatever deal you're offering. And no, I will not spy on your brother for you." She turned to open a cupboard, retrieving two mugs for coffee from its depths.

Mycroft looked from his brother to Natasha, clearly hoping for a little help. "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."

"The only arrangement I'll come to is a case to case evaluation of whatever missions you had in mind for me," she retorted. "If they're interesting and within reason, I might consider taking them on. Other than that, my answer stands." She set the mugs down on the counter and met his eyes. "How's that?"

"Not what I was hoping for." Mycroft debated the merits and downfalls or issuing a subtle threat. "Considering your situation across the pond."

"A situation she is more than capable of handling." Sherlock replied, moving in to grab the sugar from the pantry. "I do hope you were not planning on threatening her, you'll likely find that embarrassing…and dangerous. As for the missions, you can find the ones that might interest us both. I've been meaning to step up my involvement with MI6 to fill the time between cases."

Natasha opened a drawer to take out a spoon and pointed it at Mycroft. "I second that idea," she informed him. "Missions that interest us both. Maybe just make a list for us. We can go over it together the next time I fly over for a visit."

Mycroft pressed his lips together and tapped his umbrella once on the floor. "Fine," he replied, though clearly it wasn't. "Evidently I'll be getting nowhere with the two of you, and I'd rather avoid a broken limb... or worse." He fixed his eyes on his brother. "Will you be working today? I did have one other thing to speak to you about. More of a favor, but I'm sure you'll find it interesting."

Sherlock raised a brow and leaned against the counter. "I've got one case that might be interesting, and experiments to conduct." He said impassively. "As for your 'interesting' favor….I'll hear you out. Now or am I to make an appointment?"

"Yes, I'm sure you have other... business to attend to." Mycroft smiled briefly and turned to retrieve the folder he'd dropped onto the coffee table upon entering the apartment. "The details are inside the file, but I think you should talk to this person face to face. I trust you'll be discreet, as usual."

"When am I not?" Sherlock quipped back, reaching to take the offered coffee mug. He gave Natasha grateful nod and then turned his attention back to his brother. "Tomorrow then? Text me the details, if you would."

"Tomorrow," Mycroft confirmed, setting the thick folder down on the kitchen table. "I'll text you later today with the details." He turned for the door but paused halfway. "Miss Romanoff, it's been interesting. Sherlock, I'll be in touch."

Natasha lifted her own mug to her lips and leaned against the counter once Mycroft disappeared down the stairs. "Are you going to take the case?"

"He says it would be interesting." Sherlock said, scooping up the folder to skim over it. "If it is, I'm not going to ignore it just to spite him. Besides, I don't have anything else going on…" He trailed off as he found something that caught his eye, and he smirked just slightly, snapping the folder shut and tossed it on the table. "Looks promising, but it's also something I don't need to handle until tomorrow."

"Then I'm sorry I won't be here to see it," she said. "I'm leaving tonight, I think. I need to arrange for it, but as soon as I do, I'll be boarding a plane." She moved over to sneak a peek into the file herself. "Think you'll miss me?"

"Maybe a bit." Sherlock said, studying her as she read through the first page. "Work to do though." He took a sip of his coffee. "You probably don't know when you'll be back then."

"No, I don't," Natasha confirmed. "But if I don't die, I _will_ be back at some point," she promised, closing the file to flash him a warm smile. "If I go to jail, it might take a little longer, but I'll be back then too. Here's hoping neither one comes to pass."

"I'll be here…probably." Sherlock said, giving her an affectionate look. "I'd appreciate if you didn't die, or go to jail. But at least the latter I can get you out of."

Natasha's smile widened for a quick second. "Jails need my permission to hold me," she assured him. "But I appreciate the sentiment..." She lifted her mug to hid her smile. "Charming."

"Sentiment aside, I'm just a text away if you need my assistance."

"I know." Natasha walked over to set her mug down on the counter and wrap her arms around him, tipping her head back and resting her chin on his chest. "I appreciate that." She studied his face a few seconds longer. "And I'm glad I came to visit."

"I am too." Sherlock said, bringing his hand to caress his fingertips over her cheek. "Now, I think we were just starting something, if you'd like to continue before the cases. No email yet, so we have a bit of time."

"I'd like that." Natasha pulled back and pressed a quick kiss to his chest. "And who knows, maybe Lestrade will call you and you'll get lucky two ways. Come on," she grabbed his open dressing gown and pulled him gently, "remind me of what I'll be missing when I leave."

"Happily." Sherlock said with a look that was fond, but predatory. Now that he was nearly healed and at his usual strength again their possibilities had a wide range. He stepped with her and then backed her up against the same part of the wall. He leaned down and started trailing kisses down her neck from behind her ear, speaking as he went along. "But you know… I don't ….believe… in luck."

"Getting lucky's an expression." Natasha closed her eyes and buried one hand in his hair with a happy sigh. "That..." She rested her head against the surface of the wall and undid the tie on her dressing gown. "Was a joke. Sort of."

Sherlock continued down her neck and across her collarbone, his hands exploring along the way. "Then you're…right….you're not…very good at…jokes. Or maybe I'm not…good at understanding them."

Natasha chuckled breathlessly. "Maybe it's both," she suggested. "Doesn't matter." She moved her hands to push his dressing gown off his shoulders. "We're good at..." Her breath hitched. "Other things."

"Very good." Sherlock said as the material fell to the ground, stopping when he got to her chest and straightening up to meet her eyes. "Though I do think we should practice a bit more, any objections?"

Another smile lit up Natasha's face. "None at all."


	12. Chapter 12

Three months passed before Natasha could return to London. Clint's farm had been her first stop upon returning to the U.S., but soon she'd moved on to the newly christened Avengers Tower to reconvene with the rest of the group. Steve put his search for Bucky on hold; Bruce and Tony did the same with their work, and soon they were storming Hydra outposts around the world searching for Loki's Chitauri scepter.

It took them two months to track it down, but they finally found it in Sokovia; a small war-torn country in Eastern Europe. Tony had taken possession of it, and for three days used it to breathe life into what he was calling the Ultron program; his answer to world peace. The contrary proved true, and in a matter of days the world was overrun with robots hellbent on extinguishing the human race. Natasha almost lost her life and her sanity in that struggle, but in the end the whole team came together to save the day.

Everything appeared to go back to normal after that. Clint's wife, Laura, gave birth to a beautiful baby boy she'd chosen to name Nathaniel. Steve assumed his role as leader and mentor at the New Avengers facility in upstate New York, with Natasha as his second in command. They weren't called in for committee hearings. They weren't brought to trial.

The world moved on from Ultron the same way it moved on from S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra before, or so it seemed.

Natasha didn't find moving on quite so easy. Despite Wanda Maximoff's apologies, her tampering had already wreaked havoc on Natasha's stability. Her nightmares became frequent and vivid, assaulting her with every splatter of red on her ledger whenever she closed her eyes. Her sleep became uneasy and erratic, rarely allowing her body proper rest.

For the first time since her time on the run, Natasha felt the furthest she ever had from her humanity.

Over the course of those three months, Sherlock had been in her thoughts even more than usual. She worried for his safety, but more than that, she missed him and she missed his company. She'd texted him a short while after the ordeal with Ultron was over to let him know she was alive, but that had been the extent of their interactions. She wanted to see him with an intensity that scared her, but she was still needed and she took that seriously. Sherlock, she knew, would understand.

Eventually, her patience paid off and she was able to take a few days off. Clint suggested she fly over to London when she'd visited his farm to meet the newest addition to the Barton clan, after she'd mentioned her arrangement with Sherlock. Natasha took the advice.

She arrived in London at four in the morning exhausted and worn out, but feeling an odd mixture of excitement and uncertainty at the prospect of seeing Sherlock again after such a long time. She crept into 221B and slipped off her boots so she could tiptoe her way into his room, and slowly climbed underneath the covers. She studied his face for a few seconds in the dim light, re-memorizing his features and taking comfort in the fact that he was very much alive. Smiling just a little, she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had spent three months being extremely busy. The favor for his brother had actually turned into a worthwhile endeavor and opened a new doors for him. John had just been happy that they'd gotten paid for their time with that.

Busy was good, busy kept his mind occupied. But in the quiet times, between cases especially while he was playing the violin, his thoughts drifted to Natasha. She now had a room in his mind palace, and he went over it frequently. Reevaluation of course, but he nearly always came to the same conclusion. He wanted to have this time with Natasha, when it wouldn't interfere with his work, and she was enough of an enigma to keep his mind occupied during their time together.

But the work always came first. In the three months he'd apprehended a serial killer, among many other murderers, thieves, and criminals. A few close calls, one such that had thrown him in the hospital, but he was still alive and causing damage like the East Wind that he was.

It was the global events of the last month that had him thinking about Natasha more often. It wasn't a difficult deduction to know Natasha was neck deep in this as soon as the news footage started. He wasn't terribly sure he liked anyone on her little team. But they did end up saving the world, so he had to give them a bit of credit.

Sherlock had spent the time after the global crisis anxious and pacing the flat. He hadn't heard from her, and while the death toll had a number, they weren't giving out names just yet. Even Mycroft couldn't tell him for sure if she'd survived or not. Her simple text had been a relief and he let himself relax in the knowledge that she'd be back in London eventually. He'd sent her something just as simple back and then they were silent again.

In the week following, Sherlock got tangled up in an extensive and amazingly engaging case involving a gang, two bulldozers, a night of going undercover as a mercenary, and the arrest of four high profile leaders of the London gang operation. It had been a long exhausting case, and when he finally let himself be a human again, he'd shed his suit, pulled on his old pajamas, and crashed into bed.

And it was then, in the wee hours of the morning that Natasha came back to London.

Being as tired as he was, the kiss had barely drawn him out of sleep. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd dreamed about her, but this one felt different. He pinched his features and blinked his eyes open. "Hmm?"

Natasha pulled back just enough to meet the tiny bit of blue peeking out from beneath his eyelids. "Hey you," she said quietly. "You can go back to sleep, I was just saying hello."

"As long…as you aren't a dream, I'm going back to sleep." Sherlock mumbled, reaching out to wrap an arm around her and bring her closer.

"I'm very real," she assured him with a soft chuckle. "And all yours for the next few days," she added once she'd tucked herself close to him, still fully clothed in the jeans, blouse and trench coat she'd worn for the flight. Her eyes closed and for the first time in three months, she allowed herself to relax.

Sherlock fell asleep again almost immediately, but Natasha barely managed two hours before the nightmares began anew. Shabby hospital walls. Girls in braids with smooth skin where their mouths should be. A hand over her face shoving her backwards on a gurney. Bindings cutting into her wrists to keep still. Her hands closed into tight fists against Sherlock's chest and she opened her eyes with a sharp intake of breath, scrambling out from his embrace.

 _We have no place in the world._ The words rattled painfully inside Natasha's head. "Stop. Stop. Stop." She closed her eyes, slapping her hands over ears like a scared little girl. She grit her teeth and pulled her legs up. "Stop."

Sherlock was awake in a flash as the woman in his arms scrambled away from him. He'd taken a knee to his stomach along the way and put his hands out to protect himself from further injury. But she was gone, curled up away from him. He didn't touch her, more than aware of the reaction and fear that might accompany it. Instead he knelt on the bed a few feet away from her. "Natasha." He said calmly, but firmly. "I'm here…you're in London. You're safe."

Slowly but surely, Natasha's ragged breathing slowed and evened out. _Breathe. Safe. In London. Breath. Just breathe._ Her eyes opened halfway, watery and red-rimmed, and very slowly, she removed her hands from her ears. _We have no place in the world._ It was nothing but a whisper now.

"Sorry about that." Natasha sniffled noisily and turned her face away, attempting to calm herself down before she faced him again. "I'm fine, just go back to sleep."

"I'm already wide awake." Sherlock said gently, sitting further back on his heels and putting his hands on his pajama bottom covered knees. He hesitated, trying to figure out what to do. John used to have nightmares, and there were ways they dealt with that. Might as well start with the obvious English thing to do. "How about some tea?"

"Tea?" Natasha wiped her eyes with more force than was necessary, angry at her outburst. Still not looking his way, she threw her legs over the side of the bed. "Yeah, okay. I'll be right out. I'm just going to change."

"Okay." Sherlock climbed off of the bed after her and headed for the door to give her privacy. He'd always been under the impression that women were capricious and difficult to understand. The fairer sex was John's division. But she wasn't just another woman, she was different, that's what drew him in. But she was also hurting, and fighting something he didn't completely understand. Perhaps he should just be himself. He started the kettle and then moved over to pick up his violin.


	13. Chapter 13

Natasha waited until he'd left the room before stood from the bed to change. A black tank top, grey pajama shorts and a splash of cold water on her face later, she crossed the kitchen into the sitting room where Sherlock was playing his violin. She hesitated, but she approached him slowly to rest her hands on his sides and her forehead between his shoulder blades. "Sorry."

Sherlock stopped the song without finishing the melody and lowered the violin. "It's fine." He said impassively, not turning around yet, not sure what he should do. "Tea's almost ready." Pause. "Is there anything else you need?"

"No, it was just a nightmare." Natasha breathed him in and allowed herself one last moment of comfort before she let him go. Sherlock turned, putting the violin in the chair on his way around, and she continued. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to deal with those here, but..." She placed her hands on her hips and exhaled slowly. "I suppose something must've triggered it. I'll be fine."

He fiddled with his hands for a moment as he studied her. "Was the trigger me?" He asked, taking a step around her to get the tea ready. "I do not want to…be the cause of your...hurt."

"I think I might be afraid of it being the other way around." Natasha followed him with her eyes and turned to shadow his footsteps. "I'm afraid I'll end up hurting you. I'm... I don't know, I guess I'm afraid I'll never be more than the assassin I was made to be." She stopped a few steps away and fixed her eyes on the floor. "Sherlock, if this is all a complication you'd rather not deal with, I understand. Say the word, and I'll go."

Sherlock stopped what he was doing at the counter and turned to face her, all confused expression and fluffy bed hair. "And why would I do that?" He asked, more rhetorical, because he moved on right away. "Natasha…I deduced that this might happen, I know your reputation and part of your history, and I accepted you anyways. Because I believe you're much more than just that. Okay?"

Natasha studied him closely, gauging his sincerity. "Okay," she confirmed quietly. "And I changed my mind, I do need something."

"Anything." Sherlock replied immediately.

"Come here and hold me." Natasha took a small step forward. "It doesn't have to be for very long, I just missed you."

No hesitation, Sherlock stepped up to her and opened his arms to envelope her in an embrace. "I missed you too. I'm…very glad you're alive." He said quietly, tucking her head under his chin.

"I'm glad I'm alive too. For a minute there, I wasn't sure I would be for very long." Natasha turned her face towards his chest and pressed her lips against it, muffling her next words. "Did you keep busy while I was away?"

"Quite." Sherlock answered, planning on holding onto her until she was ready step away. This wasn't something he normally did, his physical contact with people was limited. Especially physical contact that was a comforting gesture. But he wasn't incapable. "Plenty of new cases, a few that made John's blog. Only almost died once, disappointing, but could have been worse…" He paused, glancing down at her. "I watched the news too."

Natasha looked up and rested her chin on his chest, not quite ready to let him go. "It's been a whirlwind these last three months," she said. "It all sort of snowballed towards the end, and now I kind of have a new job." Her lips lifted at the corner in an affectionate smile. "I hope you weren't worried."

"Worried?" Sherlock asked in a slight scoff, trying to dismiss it. "Of course not. Illogical, really, worry is illogical. I simply liked remaining apprised of the situation for a number of different reasons, including the fate of the planet it seems...Anyways, congratulations on your new job. How flexible is it?"

"Flexible enough," Natasha replied. "You'll still get to see me every now and then, not that you're worried about that either," she teased. "With S.H.I.E.L.D. all over the place, the Avengers are stepping into their role. We've taken operations to a facility in upstate New York, so it's a work in progress. Stark's running with the cost." She raised herself up on tiptoe and after a moment of nervous anticipation, leaned in to give him the first proper kiss in three months.

Sherlock tightened his arms around her, slipping a hand into her short hair to hold her head as he kissed her back. Funny how much he could miss something he'd spent decades avoiding. But this wasn't just a kiss. This was a celebratory and intimate act with a woman he actually felt willing to share himself with. So he kissed her back deeply, making sure to let her know that he was there for her, no matter the nightmares or global catastrophes.

Natasha melted against him, curling her hands into his shirt to keep herself steady. Her nightmare and the horror of the last few months faded slowly to the background and when she pulled back, it was with a sharp intake of breath and a rare, relaxed smile. "You said something about tea."

"I did, and it's probably quite strong by now." Sherlock said, tilting his head just slightly as he studied her face. He leaned back in to press a soft kiss to her forehead, and then pulled away to get the tea.

A few moments later they were sitting next to the fireplace with tea cups in hand. Sherlock was relaxed and thoughtful as he watched her. "Did you have anything you wanted to do or see while you're here. I'm currently caseless, but that usually doesn't last long."

"I was planning on securing a safe house, but other than that I had nothing planned." Natasha tucked her legs beneath herself and took a sip of her tea. "If you're not busy tonight, we could always take John up on his dinner offer. Try and be normal, for once."

Sherlock huffed out his nose in amusement. "Normal?" He scoffed lightly. "Wine and sitting and conversation? Still, could be interesting. Josina is almost eight months old now, she babbles a lot. I'll text John."

"Let me know. I'm surprisingly good with children," she commented. "They seem to like me, at least. I'm not sure why." She gave him a curious once over, but it was quick. "In the meantime we'll find a way to entertain ourselves. I've got a few Russian poisons I've been meaning to stock up on, anyway. You can come with me if you're still caseless."

"I'm in." Sherlock said with a quick nod. "Could brush up on my knowledge of Russian poisons anyways. Had a case a few years ago that featured one. The murderer was careless so I caught her quickly, but it was a very interesting method."

Natasha smiled slowly. "I once paralyzed another agent with a mild dose for a week, for experimental reasons. I take a professional interest." she said. "I read your blog, too, by the way. In my spare time."

"And what did you think?" Sherlock asked, his expression shifting to hopeful and extremely interested.

"Very useful," she said quickly. "Your analysis of tobacco ash I could've used for a few missions several years ago," she added. "For some reason I deal with a lot of men with exotic smoking habits. Maybe a side effect of their wealth, but still, it helps to be knowledgeable on the subject."

Sherlock couldn't help the smile that grew on his face, but he tried to play it off. "Not many appreciate it as much as you do, I don't know why. It's been extremely helpful in my work. You should see my dog and cat hair collection."

"You could always show me and give me a lecture. I like listening to you talk." Natasha's smile grew. "Poisons first?"

"Acceptable." Sherlock said, but his manner betrayed the childish joy that accompanied someone interested in what he was. "Breakfast before poisons, however, I'd suggest going out."

"And I'm going to agree. I'm good at a lot of things, but cooking is definitely not one of them." Natasha drained the last of her tea, unfolding herself from John's chair. "It's still early, if you want to sleep a couple more hours."

"Actually, I'm too hungry to go back to sleep. Had a case." Sherlock said, by way of explanation. "Besides, I only have a few days with you, logically it makes sense to optimize my time by not sleeping the day away."

"Perfectly logical," Natasha agreed with a short, affectionate laugh. "I'll go get dressed and you can tell me about the case over breakfast. I might even trade you one of my stories for it."

" _Might?_ And you think I'd exchange the events of this case for a 'might'?" Sherlock asked with a quirked brow.

"Oh, I don't know... I suppose it depends on where, exactly, the events of this case fall on your scale." Natasha set her cup down in the sink and walked back over, leaning over the back of John's chair with a playful smile. "Was it a ten?"

"A nine." Sherlock answered, uncrossing his legs and standing up. "But close to a ten, I suppose. I got to go undercover, so it was quite exciting."

Natasha hummed interestedly. "Then I'll drop the 'might'," she promised. "One story for another. I'll go shower first."

"Acceptable." Sherlock said again, giving her a subtle smirk on his way to the kitchen. "Don't take too long, I might end up joining you."

"Was that supposed to dissuade me?" Natasha straightened and eyed him slowly. "Because it's having the opposite effect, and I've missed you in more ways than one."

"The effect it had was the effect intended." Sherlock replied, pulling away from the sink once he put the tea cup away. He put his hands on his hips and looked her over. "Problem?"

"No problem at all." Natasha bit her lip in anticipation. "Come on then." She pulled off her tank top and threw it his way, crossing the kitchen towards the bathroom. "Let me show you how much I've missed you."

Sherlock caught the tank top in his hand and smirked just a bit as he followed. "I was about to request the same, I believe it should be very beneficial."

Natasha threw a wink at him over her shoulder. "Then we'll show each other."


	14. Chapter 14

The rest of the day went as planned, a trip out to collect a few Russian poisons, a lecture about the methods to identifying dog and cat hair, and a discussion about administering poisons. Sherlock didn't take a case, the few that graced his inbox were 'dull, not worth my time'. But he had texted John to arrange this dinner.

John had been a little taken aback, despite it not being the first time Sherlock had joined them for dinner. It's just the first time he'd ever be joining as any sort of double date. Sherlock even promised to pick up bakery rolls on the way over.

At six o'clock on the dot, Sherlock and Natasha stepped out of the cab. Soon John was letting the couple into the Watson home. "Natasha, it's good to see you again." He greeted with a friendly smile over his shoulder as he led the way to the dining room and kitchen. "Sherlock, you can put the rolls on the table."

Natasha smiled in turn and took a quick look around. "So where's the lady of the house?"

"Right here," Mary announced with a bright smile when they entered the dining room, walking over to greet Sherlock first. "Sherlock."

"Mary." Sherlock said, but she was already moving away towards her intended target. He stepped around her and headed to the table, which had already been set.

Mary reached for Natasha's hand. "It's very nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise," Natasha answered quickly.

John moved with Sherlock, lowering his voice as he spoke to his best friend. "She's alive then?"

"I assumed even you could not miss that." Sherlock said, eyeing John.

"I mean…she's not dead and she's here. I'm glad. A text is one thing, but it's…well, it's good to know for certain."

"Apparently so." Sherlock said, raising his voice to address Mary as well. "Where's Josi?"

Mary turned away from where she'd begun quiet conversation with Natasha. "Should be up from her nap soon," she told him. "I'm just going to check in on her now."

"Anything I can do to help in the meantime?" Natasha asked.

"No, no, just sit down and make yourselves at home," Mary told them, gesturing with her hands. "I'll just be a moment."

A few minutes later, Mary came back, John brought out the food and then the group gathered at the table. Josina sat in her highchair in between Mary and John, making faces at Natasha. All in all, Sherlock looked more awkward than he probably would have liked. But no matter.

John offered the wine to their guests and then commented. "We kept up with the news, Natasha. Quite the save there, wasn't it?"

Natasha made a cute face at Josi before she picked up her filled glass. "We cut it pretty close," she acknowledged. "Even lost one of ours along the way. Young, you know."

"What about the damage?" Mary asked. "There seemed to be a lot of destruction along the way. They were tallying up the potential cost on the news, and some of those countries just don't have the resources."

"Stark's doing what he can," Natasha replied. "But you're right, it's too much. Someone's going to be held accountable, and it'll probably be us. What happened with S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Helicarriers before was bad enough. Measures will be taken soon."

"Pity about that thing with S.H.I.E.L.D, one of the Americans I treated in Afghanistan had a brother who was a S.H.I.E.L.D agent. Always kinda wondered what happened to him."

"What type of measures?" Sherlock asked, reaching to pick up his wine glass with a delicate hand. "Do you have countermeasures planned?"

"There are rumors about the possibility of implementing a registration policy," Natasha explained "So that our government and others can not only keep tabs, but decide when and if they want our help. Hold people accountable if need be. No word on how they'll go about it yet, though," she concluded. "It's not ideal, but it makes sense. And it's not the first time I've had a government try and keep tabs on me."

Mary smiled a little with something like understanding in her eyes. "Ever thought about getting out of the game completely? New name and new life?"

"It's not the life for me," Natasha said good-naturedly. "I've got too much to make up for." Her eyes turned to Josi and John for a brief second, but she looked away and took another sip of wine. "If you give me your war buddy's name I could try and see what happened to his brother," she told John. "Everyone's a little scattered right now."

"I don't remember the first name, but his last name was Alvarez." John replied with a little smile. "Don't worry about it though, it's not that big a deal."

"John's attempting to make a connection because he's feeling awkward and inadequate and doesn't know how to handle _this_ situation yet." Sherlock supplied in between bites, earning a look from the man himself. "Mycroft offered her a job, but she turned him down. It was actually very entertaining."

"Yes, thank you, Sherlock." John said, reaching for his wine again. "Anyways, scattered is understandable, at least from what I've seen. Hopefully whatever may come works in your favor."

"I'm sure it will, one way or another," Natasha said. "So what situation doesn't he know how to handle?" She asked Sherlock. "Is it you bringing a woman to dinner?"

"Apparently." Sherlock replied, hiding a smirk behind his glass.

"Sherlock's always been something of a loner," Mary explained. "I think it's a good thing, John's just having a hard time adjusting." She reached out to place her hand over her husband's and took another small sip of her wine.

John gave Mary a brief affectionate look. "It's fine." He assured them. "I've learned to expect the unexpected with Sherlock Holmes."

"Have you? Seems like a work in progress to me." Sherlock retorted in a tease.

Mary took her hand off John's with a bit of a smile, but reached out to pick up Josina when she began to fuss beside her. "Could've been worse," she told John. "Could've walked into a Janine sort of situation at the flat with her in one of his shirts."

"Mycroft did." Sherlock interrupted. "Though I suppose it wasn't exactly the same."

John eyed Sherlock, and then glanced at Natasha. "What do you mean…not exactly the same?"

Natasha exchanged a quick glance with Sherlock. "Sherlock had me pinned against a wall with his hands in _exactly_ the right places," she informed him. "I wasn't wearing a shirt either, but I was wearing his robe. So... similar, I guess."

Mary let out a short laugh. "Sounds like you two've been making good use of your time, then."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I believe so. We've been experimenting…"

"Right." John said, interrupting Sherlock. His face shifted briefly as he tried to get that mental picture out of his head. Although picturing it was difficult to begin with anyways. "Just be careful around Greg, he might attempt to video record it, and Lord knows you don't want that getting around. I'd suggest actually locking your doors."

"Not exactly the most foolproof of plans, as both you and Mycroft have keys to 221B, not to mention Mrs Hudson." Sherlock replied.

"You'd probably give Mrs Hudson a heart attack if she caught you at that." John replied, with something of a more relaxed smile.

"It'd be a hell of a first impression," Natasha joked.

"Oh, well, it's bound to be bit awkward anyway, isn't it?" Mary laughed. "She's always thought these two," she quickly darted her eyes between John and Sherlock, "were together. Until we got married, that is."

"It might not be such a bad idea to let her catch us at it at least once, then," Natasha joked. "Just to set the record straight."

"Heart attack, remember?" Sherlock replied, with a little amused huff out his nose. "Besides Mrs Hudson's perspective on my personal life has never meant that much to me."

"As if anyone else's does mean anything to you?" John joked. "Please, Mrs Hudson wasn't the only one that thought we were together. I think half of Scotland Yard did, at least. Not to mention the press."

"An absurd notion all around. Idiots can't seem to imagine anyone being _my friend_ , apparently." Sherlock said, crinkling his nose just slightly.

Natasha bit back an amused smile at his crinkled nose. "People just like to gossip," she said. "You having a boyfriend instead of a friend is better for that sort of thing."

"Sod them all," Mary said with a happy smile, shifting Josi in her arms. "John can you hold her for a bit? I think she's finally hungry."

"Yeah, no problem." John said, putting his hands out for the wispy haired blonde baby. He smiled and brought her in, bopping her nose with his. Speaking lovingly and quietly, he said, "Come here, Princess. Daddy's got you."

Sherlock smiled just a bit in the moment he watched John, letting it pass as he grabbed another bite to eat.

"Can I get you two anything else?" Mary asked on her way to the door.

"Nothing for me," Natasha told her with a quick smile.


	15. Chapter 15

Mary disappeared into the kitchen and Natasha resumed eating, sneaking a peek at Sherlock's profile before fixing her eyes on John and Josi. She crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair after taking one last bite of food and picking up her glass of wine. "I've got a feeling she's going to be a force of nature when she grows up," she said about Josi.

"If she lives up to her name, I'd agree completely." John said, turning his eyes away from his daughter and to the redhead. His smile turned a mischievous curious. "Don't suppose you two will ever be settling down with a kid or two, yeah?"

Sherlock sputtered into his water and then cleared his throat. "That would be a no."

Natasha relaxed upon hearing Sherlock's reply and reached out to lightly pat his back. "That would be a no from me too," she told John. "Not my thing."

"What's not your thing?" Mary entered the room with a small plate of food for Josi and a smile. She settled into her chair and gestured for John to put her back in the high chair so she could feed her. "What are you talking about?"

"Children," Natasha supplied.

"Sorry…" John said, giving both Sherlock and Natasha an apologetic look over his shoulder as he maneuvered the wiggling baby into the high chair. "Though we did name Sherlock godfather if anything should happen to us."

"Nothing _will_ happen." Sherlock insisted, pointing his fork at John.

"Well with the way you two carry on it's better to be prepared," Mary explained. "Hopefully nothing does happen, though." She smiled affectionately at her husband and picked up the baby's spoon. "I'd like to keep this one around a while longer."

"One can only imagine why." John teased, reaching for his own fork again.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched just slightly. "I have no idea what you mean, Mary. Our work is perfectly safe. No danger whatsoever."

John scoffed at that and replied jokingly. "You're not a good of a liar as you like to think you are."

"And didn't you almost die not too long ago?" Mary teased while she scooped a bit of food into Josi's open mouth. "I think I might've heard something about that."

Natasha exhaled a laugh. "A man who can't resist a dangerous situation? I'm swooning," she half joked.

"It is a tiny bit sexy isn't it?" Mary agreed. "For all his joking, John really can't resist a dangerous situation either."

"Good matches all around then." John commented, giving Mary another playful look. He turned his attention back to Natasha. "Because if Sherlock Holmes was going to devote part of his life to a …relationship, however loosely defined that is, I think it would be with someone like you."

Mary watched Sherlock for a reaction, but it was Natasha who spoke first. "That's quite a compliment," she replied, playing it off as casual, but visibly touched if one was observant enough to notice. "It goes both ways."

"Which is the very definition of a 'good match'," Mary quipped with another bright smile. "Now how about dessert?"

"Is it? Good to know." Sherlock kept any and all response off of his face, but nodded his acknowledgment with a subtle smile. "Dessert would be fine. I'm still hungry."

"Imagine that." John joked, standing up to get the chocolate pudding layered dessert he and Mary had made together.

Mary chuckled lightly at her husband's joke. "Must've been a hell of a case, then," she commented.

"In my case, I'll always go for dessert if it's offered," Natasha quipped.

Mary finished feeding Josi and picked up plate and spoon, just as she began to fuss again. "Do you mind holding her for a bit while I go put these in the sink and help John with the plates?"

"I'll take her," Natasha offered, setting her glass down and rising out of her chair to pull the baby into her arms when Mary handed her over.

"I'll just be a minute," she promised, and disappeared into the kitchen after her husband.

Natasha sat back down, expertly holding Josi in her arms. Years of practice with the Barton children had paid off. "You think it's too early to teach this one about poisons?"

Sherlock chuckled quietly, reaching a hand to tickle Josi's foot. "Probably not. I was dissecting things by age four. Who knows, it might be useful."

Josi giggled and moved her little feet, prompting a smile from Natasha. "Could start with mild poisons and work our way up," she commented quietly. "Can't tell your parents, though," she told Josi. "Useful as that knowledge will be when boys get grabby with you, I'm not sure they'd approve."

Mary slipped back into the room with two servings of dessert, leaving John to bring in the other two. "You're a natural," she told Natasha.

"Well, you know, you handle enough delicate articles in your lifetime, you get used to being careful," Natasha laughed. "This one's no different."

Sherlock smiled honestly at the interaction, and glanced up as John brought in the other two dessert plates. "Most delicate articles don't wiggle or dance, I'd argue it's a bit different. It's much easier to drop a baby."

"If you say so, though I know you like the dancing." John retorted, sitting down once everyone had a plate in front of them. "I really should have taken a video of the last time."

"We could always recreate the circumstances for documentation purposes," she teased, and glanced at Sherlock. "Do you want to hold her for a little bit?"

Sherlock glanced back, observing the baby and trying to decide it she was about to burst into tears or anything like that. After a moment he nodded and put his arms out. "Sure, why not. You seemed pretty excited about dessert anyways."

"I'm always excited about dessert," Natasha confirmed, shifting the baby into Sherlock's arms. "Chocolate in particular."

"Then here you go," Mary said, placing a small plate in front of her. "You're welcome to seconds."

"Hell, you're welcome to take the rest of the dish home with you." John said with a chuckle.

"You _are_ putting on weight again, though it's to be expected with a baby around." Sherlock bounced Josi a couple times before settling her down upright in his lap.

"Yes, thank you Sherlock." John replied, eyeing his friend before picking up his fork.

"Four pounds-"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"It's really not that much weight." Mary picked up her own fork. "But you _are_ welcome to take the plate with you," she told Natasha.

Natasha laughed softly. "I wouldn't want to get greedy."

"Will you be staying much longer?"

"Just for a few days," Natasha answered.

"Then we'll have to repeat this next time you're over," Mary replied.

"Definitely." John agreed with a nod. "Or maybe I'll take Mary on the next case and we'll make it a double date there too."

Sherlock raised a brow. "I don't need that many assistants. It's difficult enough keeping track of one or two."

"I'm fine with skipping out," Mary assured John. "If we're really doing a double date sort of thing, we could always do something else. Besides, we still haven't got our babysitting situation figured out."

"You'll run background checks?" Natasha asked.

"Well, our version of background checks." John said with a little chuckle. "We've got a plan to have them meet Sherlock before we hire them for sure. Can't be too careful, considering."

"We'll need to get on that soon," Mary commented. "I can't keep taking her to work with me."

"Having them meet Sherlock sounds like a good plan," Natasha said. "If the person doesn't run, you've got yourself a keeper."

"You're learning quick." John joked. "He's the one that deduced Mary was pregnant to begin with. He's handy to have around for these sorts of things."

"I'm touched." Sherlock replied dryly, picking up Josi to stand instead of sit in his lap. "What would you do without me?"

Mary snuck a covert glance at John, whose jaw had clenched at the comment, but returned her eyes to her plate. Naturally, neither one of them needed to imagine. They knew already. Natasha noticed the short exchange and straightened in her chair to reach out and brush a gentle hand over Josi's head. "If she's the dancing type, you might want to consider ballet later on."

"We haven't really thought that far ahead yet, not seriously at least." John said with an easy, but faked smile to cover the unease. He glanced at Mary. "We'll put it on the list though."

Sherlock knew Natasha had been a dancer, even that she covertly enjoyed it still, but he made another note to ask her to dance sometime. For the moment he bounced Josi up and down on his lap, drawing a giggle from the eight month old.

Mary smoothed a hand over John's back but turned her attention to Sherlock and Josi. "Looks like you're a natural too," she commented. "You're sure you two don't want to try for one of those?"

"Quite certain." Sherlock said, glancing at John and Mary again. "This seems like a good arrangement already, whenever she starts fussing or being annoying, I simply hand her off. Benefits, without all the time consuming hard work."

"And the sleepless nights to go with it," Natasha quipped.

Mary laughed. "Alright, fair enough," she nodded. "Just teasing you two."

"I really don't understand the point of that." Sherlock commented. "It doesn't bother me, of course, it's just…odd."

"The teasing happens whether you like it or not. It's almost a rite of passage." John said. "On the positive side, it seems like you won't be telling massive amounts of people. Who knows? Mycroft, and us? Is that it?"

"For people here in London, yes." Sherlock confirmed.

"I've only told two people on my team," Natasha explained. "I don't plan on telling any of the others, but they're bound to find out at some point. They're all nosy like that, and we've got a mind reader now, too."

"Can't imagine that's very pleasant," Mary commented.

"It's not," Natasha agreed. "But she's working on staying out of people's heads. It's a work in progress."

"Is there a way to learn that?" Sherlock asked, glancing from the baby to Natasha.

"Um, no, Sherlock. You're already enough of a mind reader. No need adding more." John interjected.

"It'd be extremely useful." Sherlock argued.

"Learning wouldn't be the word, but there is a way to develop that sort of skill," Natasha told him. "The means to do it aren't here on Earth anymore, though." She flashed Sherlock a brief, apologetic smile. "Sorry."

"Disappointing." Sherlock said impassively, meeting the smile with one of his own.

"It's probably best that way," Mary replied. "Useful as it would be, it's the sort of thing you don't want to meddle with."

Natasha swung her gaze Mary's way. "Thor would agree."

John blinked twice. "Thor. Right." He let out a little awkward laugh. "Not something you hear in everyday conversation. Wasn't he just in London a couple years ago?"

"He was," Natasha confirmed. "Doctor Jane Foster, his girlfriend, still has an apartment here. He usually stays with her when he's Earthbound. Don't worry, it some getting used to for all of us," she assured him.

"Yes, yes all very interesting." Sherlock said sarcastically.

"You really should drag him along sometime." John said, ignoring Sherlock. "I really can't imagine him having a conversation with Tony Stark without something very bad happening."

Sherlock scoffed. "Not going to happen."

Natasha hid her amusement. "You never know," she replied. "Tony's big on parties and I wouldn't put it past him to throw one soon." She winked at Sherlock. "I might need a date."

Mary chuckled quietly. "You'd have to trick him, I think."

"I don't do parties." Sherlock said, bouncing the baby again as she started making faces at him. "And I can't be tricked into attending one."

"You did alright at our wedding." John said. "And I think you can be tricked. Should be fun to hear about after the fact."

"I _could_ always knock you out and have Tony's private jet fly us over," Natasha teased. "It'd be nice."

"If you do, make sure to document it," Mary played along. "I'd love to see pictures."

"I think that's the very opposite of nice." Sherlock said pointedly, really not liking being ganged up on. "It's still a no. I don't need to meet any of them, and they probably don't want to meet me. Stewart, maybe, but I'm still politely declining."

"Steve _does_ want to meet you and so does Clint," Natasha confirmed, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder and smoothing it down his arm in reassurance. "But you don't have to meet them if you don't want to," she added. "No pressure on my end."

Sherlock relaxed just slightly as he met her eyes. "Thank you. I'll think about it." He assured her.

John, of course, seemed more and more impressed with Natasha as the time ticked by. And he smiled just barely noticeably at the interaction, reaching to take Mary's hand. "Thanks for joining us for dinner though, this has been very enjoyable."

"It has," Mary agreed with a warm smile.

"Likewise," Natasha chimed in, finally tearing her eyes away from Sherlock. "Here's hoping for a repeat somewhere down the road."


	16. Chapter 16

Authors' Note: Thank you so much for the reviews/favorites/follows thus far! You all deserve cookies.

* * *

Natasha stayed in London another week after joining Sherlock at John and Mary's for dinner. She made sure to secure a safe house in the city between shadowing him while he worked, and spending some quality time with him when he wasn't. She'd missed that time with him more than she'd admit. When it was time to leave, her disappointment came as no surprise.

On her last night, they danced until late in evening... and then took their dancing into bedroom. Natasha left early the next morning, leaving behind an elegantly scribbled note on Sherlock's bedside table promising she'd be back in a couple month's time. She used a skip code to keep it interesting, gathered her bags and flew back to New York, and the New Avengers facility.

Over the next year, she traveled to London whenever she could take a few days for herself. Clint had already been curious enough, but Steve had joined him eventually. Together, they'd very subtly asked if they'd ever get to meet the man who took up so much of her free time. Natasha answered with a pointed look and a shrug of her shoulder, but smiled nevertheless. After several other failed attempts, both men left her alone.

She smiled more, though, which was something of an oddity. She was also noticeably warmer, and less guarded. She took to her job with the same amount of enthusiasm as before, but for the first time since S.H.I.E.L.D.'s collapse she felt like she was moving in the right direction in more ways than one, and it showed.

On one such visit to London, Mycroft Holmes finally decided to put his money where his mouth was and offered a mission to both his brother and herself. There was a substance out in the black market, sought by nearly every intelligence agency in the world. They were calling it Whitman's Serum, referencing its creator. The British government had particular interest given said creator's citizenship.

In Natasha's book, all intelligence agencies ranked about the same. Which is to say, not very high. But she could agree the substance needed to be off the market and she knew the Avengers wouldn't be stepping in make sure that was the case. The British government had priority, in any case, and MI6, with all its flaws, was as good an organization as any to oversee its retrieval.

Sherlock had grown accustomed to her coming and going. He'd get texts or pictures on his phone once and awhile, but they didn't maintain constant communication. He didn't need that, neither did she. Besides it might have been a distraction from their work. But the days she did show…they made up for the distance in plenty. He'd still take cases, and she'd always come along and he found she was useful in the whole process.

If she was warmer, he was as well. Less lonely overall, and happier, if anything. He liked not knowing whether she'd be there at his flat after he got home. He liked the enigmatic notes she left. And he didn't have to tell her that he liked it, because she knew.

When Mycroft finally got them pinned down for a mission, Sherlock was ready. He owed Mycroft a favor anyways, and he was looking forward to the chance to work with her on a mission again. She'd flown in that morning, and by lunchtime, they were walking into Mycroft's office. "Brother dear." He greeted, coming to a stop.

Mycroft lifted his eyes from the paperwork that crowded his desk in neat piles. "Sherlock. Natasha." He leaned back in his chair. "Please have a seat."

Natasha stopped behind one of the chairs, half tempted to perch on the desk to both annoy Mycroft and draw a smirk from Sherlock. She resisted the urge. "Mycroft."

He slid a cream colored file across his desk towards them. "Singapore," he announced. "That's the dealer's last location and, as it turns out, he's one of our own. Try and return him to us alive. The details you'll find within the file."

Sherlock did sit in the other chair, reaching for the folder and then paging through it. "He's been busy." He commented after a moment, looking up from the folder and then handing it to Natasha. "And if we can't return him alive?"

Natasha thumbed through it while Mycroft replied. "Then the... substance he's attempting to sell becomes your priority. That, you can't lose," he said.

"Specifics on the 'substance'?" Natasha asked.

"We have few," Mycroft replied. "Apparently it is a sort of... performance enhancing drug for soldiers, but not much else is known. As of now, we are calling it Whitman's Serum."

"Creative," Natasha quipped, closing the folder and walking around the chair to set it down on his desk. "When do we leave?"

"As soon as you are able to." Mycroft leaned forward on his desk and reached for the phone. "Shall I arrange for private transport?"

"That'd be appreciated, we'll get to and from the airport on our own." Sherlock said, pulling out his phone to run a quick check. "And we'll contact you for a ride home when we're through." He uncrossed his legs and then fixed his eyes on his brother. "Anything else?"

Mycroft lifted the phone off its cradle and pressed it to his ear. "No, nothing else," he said while he waited for Anthea to pick up the other end of the line. "Try not to die."

Natasha straightened. "He won't," she said seriously.

Mycroft exchanged few words with Anthea over the phone and hung up. "Very well, then. You have two hours to do whatever you need to do before you have to be on a plane. You're dismissed."

Sherlock and Natasha left Mycroft's office as quickly as they came. Two hours, two packed bags, and one meal later, they pulled up at the runway and boarded the plane. It was a thirteen hour flight to Singapore. More than enough time to discuss the particulars, strategy, and get a bit of rest along the way. Sherlock settled in his chair, putting his hands into prayer positions and drawing in a deep breath.

Natasha settled into the seat across, tucking her legs underneath. She cast her eyes out the window. "We'll need a cover once we touch down," she spoke in the quiet tone she used when she knew Sherlock was thinking.

He took about a minute to respond, blinking his eyes twice to refocus on the world around him. "Black market buyers undercover as tourists perhaps. Mercenaries looking for enhancement. Americans?"

Natasha thought it over for a moment. "Let's scope out who his buyers are first. I'm sure the tourist cover will be good for that," she decided. "If no Americans have taken the bait, we'll pose as those. If no Russians have taken the bait, then we can pose as those too. Your Russian's very good."

"It is, isn't it." Sherlock said with a little smirk, tapping his fingertips together. "Naturally the vocabulary between Russian in the bedroom and Russian in the field will be different, but I'm quite sure I'll manage."

Natasha smiled and turned her head to face him with a twinkle in her eye. "I prefer your bedroom vocabulary," she informed him. "In fact, I prefer it so much I might just want to hear it again very soon."

"We're on a plane…on a case." Sherlock said, cocking his head to the side with a confused expression on his face. "How soon is…'very soon'?"

"Don't worry," Natasha assured him. "Not so soon that it'll interfere with work, but I do plan to make good use of a bed in Singapore."

"Deal." Sherlock said, his face relaxing again as he leaned back in his seat. "Besides, I wouldn't put it past my brother to have cameras in the plane itself."

"I wouldn't either." Natasha studied her surroundings. "I'm not sure I'd want to leave a recording for the British Government to find later, much as his reaction would very likely make me laugh." She paused. "If you're going to think for a while, I'll interrupt you later to go over the particulars one more time."

"We've got a bit of time." Sherlock said with a little anticipatory smile.

Natasha's smile matched his. "Yes we do."


	17. Chapter 17

The plan was a simple one. Upon touching down in Singapore, Sherlock and Natasha would establish their cover as tourists and check into the hotel they knew their seller, Harold Whitman, would be staying in. Other known buyers would be staying in the same hotel, wanting to be close to both Whitman and the product. One of these buyers would be taken down. Sherlock and Natasha would take their place, lure Whitman out with an enticing offer, and capture him, the way Mycroft had asked them to do.

Their only real challenge was time. Once they took out the buyers they were intending to replace, they had no way of knowing how much time they'd have to complete the transaction before anyone noticed they were not who they said they were. They could estimate, however, and their estimate was around twenty-four hours.

So that was their timeframe. They'd check in, they'd choose whom they wanted to replace, and then they had twenty-four hours finish their mission. By most standards, it was cutting it close. But they were nothing if not resourceful, and the prospect of an added challenge served to make the whole thing all the more entertaining. Natasha thought perhaps Mycroft was testing their ability to improvise while working together, but she could barely keep the smile from her face regardless.

Mycroft's file had given them basic information on Whitman. A biochemistry professor at Cambridge University, the man often worked under contract for the government in projects that required the highest level of secrecy—and for the same reason, the highest level of security clearance. The substance he intended to sell was, in theory, one that was conceived in one such project. The man had gone missing not two days before, mistakenly thinking his absence would not be noticed.

The British Government always noticed when one of its own went missing, particularly one whose expertise was so thoroughly used and whose security clearance was so closely monitored. But it wasn't the sort of disappearance they wanted broadcasted on the news, and MI6's agents weren't known for their subtlety. Mycroft usually preferred to rely on his brother for this sort of mission, whenever Sherlock wasn't working and deemed the mission worthy of his attention.

Despite the seeming straightforwardness of the task, it was still a dangerous job. Whitman was an amateur whose sole security relied on his intellect and the item he'd carefully hidden to keep from over-eager buyers who might want to take him out instead of paying the price. Those buyers, however, were dangerous people. Their security, while perhaps not an overwhelming hurdle, would prove a bit of an inconvenience if it were handled poorly. Mycroft had stressed discretion.

Sherlock and Natasha were nothing if not accommodating when they wanted to be. They checked into the Marina Bay Sands Hotel posing as a traveling couple and settled into one of the suites as planned. Once the door was closed behind them, the cover dropped and Natasha pulled out her laptop.

Sherlock dropped the bags on the chair, shed his outer button-up shirt and boots and then flopped onto the bed. Hands in prayer position over his chest, he stared up at the ceiling. A moment's preparation before they sprung into action. They'd get a likely location for the buyers, move in, determine who they wanted to replace, and then act. Deductions and perfect acting would be paramount. And he was looking forward to it all. With a deep breath in, and after several minutes of listening to her type on the laptop, he sat up again. "Anything?"

Natasha didn't look away from her screen. "I've been trying to determine which ones are buyers and which ones are just tourists from the people who've checked in, taking into consideration their internet usage, room service orders, check-in date, energy consumption, even what they charge to their room and..." She trailed off, but only for a moment. "I think I've got something." This time she did look at him. "We can take out and replace the Russians."

" _Vesel'ye._ " Sherlock said, leaning back on his hands and keeping eye contact. It would be fun. He was more than willing to let her take point on the mission, she was the expert after all. "How close are they?"

Natasha returned her eyes to the screen, and smirked. "They had reservations at one of the restaurants..." She paused. "CUT is the name. They should be heading out now, and they're staying at the Marina Suite." She closed her laptop and looked up again. "I doubt they'll be heavily armed if they're just having dinner. What do you say we head up to their room and give them a warm welcome?"

"Good idea." Sherlock said, pushing himself off of the bed and headed towards his bag. "As usual, it seems."

He pulled a small tie bag out of it and tossed it to her. A ring, according to their information the Russians were married, if they were taking their place it was better to start looking the part now. "Will you marry me?"

"Always." Natasha caught the bag and pried it open to retrieve the ring. She slipped it onto her finger without ceremony and rose off her chair, setting her laptop aside. "How about a kiss to seal the deal?"

"If they're observant, which is doubtful, they'll notice the familiarity between us." Sherlock said, pulling a silver band out for himself. He wiggled his fingers and lowered his hand. "So my answer is yes."

"Then let's save it for after we take the Russians out and take their place." Natasha armed herself with her Widow's Bite beneath her jacket, Widow's Stings in hidden pockets and a set of slim daggers in her boots. She'd be aiming to knock out instead of kill so they didn't leave a trail of bodies they'd have no time to deal with later, but it didn't hurt to be prepared. Not that she needed weapons for that, but it was nice to have options. She turned to face Sherlock while buttoning up her jacket, allowing her true emotions to show on her face for the sake of their cover. "Ready, Charming?"

Sherlock was also armed, though not as thoroughly as she. His handgun tucked in his jacket, and a knife in his boot, provided everything he needed with him, he'd pick up anything else along the way. He offered her his hand, "Ready, despite the nickname."

Natasha slipped her hand into his and twined their fingers together, pulling him out the door. Hallways were empty of both people and cameras, something Natasha considered particularly foolish on the hotel's behalf but clever for their mark. It was also bad news for their Russian friends, since it also meant she and Sherlock wouldn't be seen breaking into their suite. It took them only a moment to reach their floor and find the proper door. Natasha let go of Sherlock's hand to deal with the electronic lock while he stood guard.

Then came the first hurdle. The elevator doors dinged and out stepped a pair of tourists, giggling and bumping against each other. Not the Russians, but Natasha couldn't see them. She could only hear them, and she swiftly rose out of her crouch before they had a chance to see what she was doing. She pulled Sherlock with her until he had her pressed against the wall and quietly asked her question, already bracing herself for a fight. "Tourists or our Russians?"

"Tourists." Sherlock confirmed quickly. "One's overweight, and the other's wristwatch is wrong, Canadians or Americans on a holiday. They're also currently intoxicated and if you kiss me right now, won't even notice us."

Fully trusting Sherlock's assessment, Natasha cupped Sherlock's face with one hand and pulled him down for a kiss. It was passionate, but meticulously measured because every second she wasn't busy opening the door was a second the Russians were drawing closer. It wouldn't do to be caught outside the room.

Hearing a door opening and closing amidst more giggles and quiet murmurings down the hallways, Natasha broke the kiss but didn't move away. It might've been work, but she was breathing just a bit harder nevertheless. "Are they gone?"

"Gone, let's go." Sherlock said immediately back into work mode. He released her from the wall and stepped back to keep watch again. The hallway remained empty as she worked, and after a few meticulous minutes of work, the lock beeped and the door clicked open. His assessment was quick. The suite was neat and ordered, room service had already come and gone. So he started deducing, walking his way through the room. "Ordered room service for breakfast, left…thirty minutes ago. Male, just under six foot tall. Female, four to five inches shorter. Extra ammunition in the bags, most of their delicate weapons are in the safe. On their person they're likely to have at least one gun, but the entryway should provide to be an appropriate place for a relatively easy overpowering."

"That's why we've got these." Natasha took out two small metal discs. Stingers. "It'll knock them out for a few minutes, give us time to tie them up. Pull the bags over here. Let's empty the safe." She moved towards the closet housing the metal box and positioned herself in front of the keypad on its door. She pulled out her phone, bringing up the appropriate application to pick up the combination they'd used to lock it.

"They should be back within the next twenty minutes, she put on lipstick." Sherlock said quickly, coming back from looking through the bathroom and dropping the empty bags beside her. He sat himself down at the desk and opened up their laptop. "We've got a bit of time, I'd say…" He trailed off as he mulled over password possibilities.

"I'll be quick anyways," she assured him, emptying out the safe once she had it unlocked. Bags filled with weapons, she zipped them closed and dragged them into the bedroom, joining Sherlock at the desk. She remained quiet so she wouldn't interrupt him, but surveyed her surroundings with a careful eye.

It took four tries and another shuffle through their paperwork, but eventually he deduced the password. There wasn't much to go on around the room, but eventually the right Russian word came. People were so predictable, especially a married couple. He scrolled their calendar, and a couple of the open documents. After gleaning as much as he could, he leaned back in his seat. "Stepan and Nina Khanilov. Late twenties, affluent, the mouthpiece of a much larger Russian organization. Should be fun."

Natasha smirked. "Should be. Soon as we knock them out, we'll have about twenty-four hours to pretend we're them, and lure the seller out." She glanced at her watch. "I'll knock one out and keep the other conscious so we can question him about when and where they agreed to meet..." Her eyes strayed to Sherlock. "Unless there's something in their computer?"

"There was," Sherlock leaned forward and brought up the email again. "But I still would advise asking the one when and where." He glanced up at her. "Just in case."

"Will do." Natasha moved away to check the door and peek through the peephole, sliding out of her leather jacket. "Are you going to stick around for what I'm about to do?"

Sherlock quirked a brow, swiveling in the chair to face her. "Why wouldn't I?"

Natasha turned away from the door and flashed him a smile. "Just want to know if I'll be putting on a show." She turned her eyes to her gauntlets and activated her Widow's Bite. "Shouldn't be long now."

"I do appreciate your work." Sherlock said impassively, concealing a smirk behind his now steepled hands. He stayed in the chair, staring at the door. She was right, it wasn't long before the lock clicked and the door opened. Sherlock, of course, was the first thing they saw, and he offered them a confident smile. It was about to get interesting.


	18. Chapter 18

Stepan pulled his gun on Sherlock, but Nina stayed behind. Unarmed, Natasha concluded. Sherlock's deduction was accurate. She closed the door and moved quickly. Stepan went down with two swift kicks, one to disarm and one to wind him. Nina tried coming to his aid, but was promptly knocked back with an elbow to the nose and a kick to her leg. Stepan tried going for his gun in her defense, but Natasha crouched and pressed her Bite to the nape of his neck. She finished him off with an electric jolt.

Nina was next. Natasha took her legs out from underneath her with a swivel kick when she approached, all bloody nose and uneven limp. Nina screamed out when she hit the floor with a hard thump, but Natasha straddled and pressed a hand to her mouth to keep her from making further noise. "Hello," she greeted casually while pressing her Bite to the side of Nina's neck. "Mind if we have a chat?"

Nina's icy blue eyes were pinched closed and she was breathing hard after the effects of the Bite coursed through her. She turned her head towards her husband, before addressing Natasha. Her Russian accent was faint. "It appears as if I don't have another choice."

Sherlock stood up after 'the show' and made his way over. Double checking to make sure the husband was still down, he stood nearby. "You really don't."

"Now, you're going to tell me where and when you're going to meet your seller, and you're not going to lie," Natasha instructed. " _Ponimayesh_?"

"Why should I?" Nina spat out. "Is he dead?" She asked Sherlock. "My husband! Is he dead?"

"He's not," Natasha interrupted before Sherlock could reply. "Passed out. For now." Nina glared up at her, but Natasha pressed forward, calm as ever. "Let's not make this any messier than it has to be."

Ninna huffed. "He wanted a public place to discuss the deal," she replied. "He told us to meet him at the Skypark Observation Deck here at the Sands at ten."

Natasha turned her head to address Sherlock while keeping a tight hold on the woman beneath her. "Does that match up with what you read?"

"Yep." Sherlock popped the 'p'. "And if it's not…it'll just get a bit messy in here."

"I don't know who you think you are, but you're both going to die." Nina said bitterly, glaring up at Natasha. "A bullet to the head, if you're lucky, _yobanaya suka_."

"Dirty mouth," Natasha commented. "Didn't your mom teach you any manners?" Nina looked as if she were about to spout another venomous insult her way, but Natasha silenced her with another forceful discharge of her Bite before she could. Both spouses effectively out of commission for at least a couple of hours, she rose to her feet to retrieve her jacket. "I've got something here that'll put them out for good," she told Sherlock. "At least until tomorrow."

"Ideal." Sherlock said, deciding just to leave them on the ground and instead search for the Do Not Disturb sign. He snatched it up and headed towards the door. "Bringing the weapons along with us or leaving them here?"

"Bringing them with us." Natasha crouched next to Nina and administered a relatively mild paralytic, doing the same with her husband. "I'm placing trackers on them too. Just in case."

"Smart." Sherlock commented lightly, as he scooped up the bag of weapons and headed for the door. "We've got some time to kill, scope out this observation deck I would guess is first on your list."

"Right you are," Natasha confirmed. "As usual." She looked up with a half smile once she'd finished placing trackers on both their Russian friends. "We'll take their stash of weapons with us to our room first and head up there next."

Sherlock nodded his understanding, and soon the couple left the room with the weapons in tow. The trip back to their room didn't take long, accompanied by a quick freshen up before they made their way to the Skypark Observation Deck. One of the more popular tourist attractions in Singapore, and considering the time of year and the evening itself, there was quite a few people milling about. Tourists, businesspeople, and the like. All very ordinary. But Sherlock kept a weather eye on everyone they passed, looking for clues, deductions, or any sign of possible malicious behavior.

Natasha, meanwhile, mapped escape routes, searched for security cameras and eyed people for concealed weapons, or generally suspicious behavior. She kept her hand in Sherlock's as if they were in fact married and sported a believably soft smile, but her concentration never strayed. She, like him, needed to stay sharp if they were to pull off their mission without a hitch. She brought him over to the walled-in edge of the Observation Deck, where a sprawling view of the city spread out into the distance. "We're going to have to lure him down to his room if we're going to knock him out and take him with us. There's too many people here. Too much security."

"Agreed." Sherlock said, letting go of her hand to loop his arm around her. Bringing her close so they could talk quietly and still look the part. "He wouldn't bring the substance along with him up here, it's likely in his safe until he settles on a deal. We just have to beat out everyone else. I have access to the Russian's bank records, so we'll pass inspection without dipping into the British Government's fund."

"Then it shouldn't be too hard." Natasha wrapped an arm around his waist and shifted her weight so that she was leaning against him. "I don't think he'd let us both go down with him to his room once we've settled on a deal, and he's likely to pick me instead of you, considering," she continued. "I'll contact you once I've subdued him and have the serum in my hands."

"I'll give you fifteen minutes to make contact once you've gone, then I'm going in after you." Sherlock said, keeping his eyes on the expanse of the city around them.

"I'll contact you in ten," Natasha promised with a faint smile. "Ready to go back down to our room and prepare?"

"Almost." Sherlock said, glancing down at her. He smiled back as he brought his other hand to tilt her face towards him. "I owe you a kiss, I believe."

"I believe you do..." Natasha held his gaze perhaps a second too long and when she spoke again, her voice came out in a whisper. "So kiss me."

"Yes ma'am." Sherlock said, his own voice quiet. And heedless to everyone around them, tilted his head and caught her lips in a gentle kiss.

It was always the gentle ones that caught Natasha off guard, even after all their time together, or perhaps _because_ of it. She never expected them, and when they came, she never wanted to pull away. She closed her eyes and and slid her hand behind his neck.

Around them, the wind picked up just enough to ruffle Sherlock's curls and whip Natasha's now longer hair over her shoulder, causing a few loose tendrils to curl against her cheek. Beyond the Observation Deck, the city skyline lit up against the slow dark swallowing up the blue, and a quiet murmur of approval broke out amidst the people around them. Natasha smiled just a little against Sherlock's lips. Nervously, hesitantly, and uncharacteristically so.

"Lucky me, I married a romantic," she joked quietly.

Sherlock let out an amused sound of approval as he straightened up and tucked her close again. "If that was romantic, it was completely on accident." He breathed in and let it go slowly. "We should head back to the room."

"We should." Natasha swept her eyes over the view one more time before she disentangled herself from Sherlock's arms and took his hand instead. "Lead the way."

Sherlock squeezed her hand, and sparing one more glance for the skyline, turned for the lift. They stayed in a comfortable silence on the way back to their room. He kept hold of her hand, taking a moment to contemplate that act. It wasn't something they did on a regular basis as themselves. But he found he wasn't completely confused by the concept in general. He made a note to consider bringing it into their usual routine and then put it all aside. Upon returning, their room was just how they left it, and soon they were locked in the privacy that it provided. Now it was simply a waiting and preparation game.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock and Natasha would spend the next couple hours reading, thinking, double checking weapons, and otherwise getting ready as they waited until the specified time of meeting. Eventually the time was there, and they headed back up to the Observation Deck. Ten o'clock at night, but the lights from the city and the lights on the deck itself brightened the area. Sherlock's quick blue eyes scanned the deck as they walked hand in hand until he nodded. "There."

Natasha zeroed in on the man Sherlock pointed out. "I see him," she said quietly. "Do you want to take the lead here? The less important I appear, the likelier it will be that he'll choose me to take back to his room to retrieve the substance."

" _Dah_." Sherlock said with a quick nod of understanding, his mind already there. He broadened his view, catching sight of the other buyers: Americans (brothers), Chinese (partners), and Australians (sleeping together but not married). Simple deductions, and Sherlock took the lead as they made their way towards where their target was. Harold Whitman was tall and lanky, but muscular underneath his professional outfit. With well-groomed salt and pepper hair and a pair of rectangle glasses, he looked very unassuming. But looks could be deceiving.

Sherlock continued his approach, flashing an easy smile to Whitman and speaking in a subtle Russian accent. "Hello. Lovely night tonight, is it not?"

Natasha schooled her features into a serious but self-effacing expression while Whitman eyed them both. "That depends," he said cautiously. "It'll certainly be a lovely night for someone. You've considered my price?"

"I've made the decision, we're willing to meet it one hundred percent." Sherlock said professionally.

Whitman took a step closer, briefly casting his eyes over the people around them. "You pay me first," he said quietly. "And only then do I give you what you came here for."

"I'll need an account number and a computer," Natasha replied in the Russian accent she'd worked out of her pronunciation long ago. "But we need to see the serum first."

Whitman darted his eyes between Sherlock and Natasha, reading her as 'the money' and him as 'the muscle' just like they'd predicted. "Alright." He turned towards Sherlock. "You stay here."

Sherlock played a bit of a worried expression on his face. Not enough to be completely obvious, just enough to give the idea. He slipped into Russian to speak to Natasha. " _Be careful, love._ " And then back into English. "I'll wait here then."

Natasha made a bit of a show of shooting Sherlock a nervous glance while letting go of his hand. "I'll be right back," she promised.

"Don't worry," Whitman assured Sherlock with a sleazy smile, looping his arm with Natasha's. "I'm just borrowing." He pulled her along. "Let's go."

Natasha didn't talk to Whitman while he lead her down to his room, but he still didn't seem able to keep his mouth shut. He talked about the serum, about the development process, about trials, side effects and other offers he'd received. He made himself out to be an impressive genius; a pioneer in his field, a trail blazer. If Natasha hadn't been mining him for information, she would've knocked him out, stuffed him in the nearest maintenance closet and taken care of the rest herself. _If_ being the operative word.

Whitman opened the door for her when they reached his room, and closed it behind her when they stepped inside. Natasha made a quick sweep of the suite with her eyes. "Computer?"

"Over here." Whitman led her over to his desk and opened his laptop, lingering close enough that Natasha had to curb the urge to elbow his nose. "Can I get you anything?"

"What I came here for," Natasha deadpanned. "Please."

Whitman chuckled and moved away. "Of course," he said lightly. "Right away."

Natasha typed quickly into his computer, transferring funds from one account to another. Whitman came up behind her few seconds later, placing a cylindrical metal container the size of her forearm on the desk to her right, and a glass of champagne to her left.

Natasha raised a brow. "What's that?"

"To seal the deal," he answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It's only appropriate, don't you think?"

"Actually..." Natasha swiveled around in her chair and kicked him square on the chest, rising up to go after him. Her Widow's Bite pressed firmly against his throat, she finally smiled. "No. I don't." The electrical charge knocked him out and she rose off him graceful as ever, quickly straightening her clothes before she reached for her phone. Her eyes scanned him quickly while she pressed it to her ear. "I'm taken," she told his unconscious body.

Sherlock didn't bother with a greeting when he picked up the phone and his voice was back to the usual. "Right on time. I'm on my way already."

"We can go over his room again when you get here," she replied. "Just in case he was looking to make more than one sale on this trip." She paused and picked up the canister Whitman had set out for her. "How about a late dinner after you call your brother?"

"We do have time for that." Sherlock agreed. "Might feel hungry by then, haven't decided yet." A knock sounded on the door a moment later. Right on time.

Natasha stepped over Whitman's body on her way over. "Well I'm going to be hungry," she told him after she'd opened it. " _Missed you, love,_ " she teased.

" _You've only been gone eight minutes._ " Sherlock countered with a barely concealed smile as he stepped through the door. He regarded the unconscious body of Whitman with a second's glance. "We bankrupted a powerful Russian mob, captured a criminal, and secured a dangerous substance. All in a day's work. The hotel has a lovely restaurant, if you are hungry."

Natasha pocketed her phone. "Then I'll secure Whitman while you go over the room to make sure we have all we need on him," she replied, briefly looking down at the hand sporting the wedding ring as she closed the door. "Should we keep cover until we leave?"

"Might as well, just in case the other buyers catch us around the hotel and decide to be bold." Sherlock said as he started searching the room with a methodical eye. "Means speaking Russian over dinner, and I always appreciate that challenge."

"Makes two of us." Natasha moved over to crouch over Whitman so she could bind him. When she was done, she pulled out a slim dagger from her boot and clamped a hand over his mouth before she stabbed him in the shoulder. Whitman's eyes flew open with a muffled groan. "You said you were borrowing," she explained to the red-faced man. "And I didn't like it. Be glad I didn't stab something else." She gave him a moment to really feel the pain, and then promptly administered a paralytic like she'd done for the Russian couple before. "Alright, I'm ready to go," she told Sherlock after she'd retrieved her dagger. "Just need to wash my hands."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smirk as he finished gathering the items they'd be bringing back with them. He straightened up and faced her, clasping hands behind his back. "Can I keep you?"

"Absolutely." Natasha winked and miled. "I'm all yours." She disappeared into the bathroom to wash her hands and rinse off her dagger. A few minutes later, she emerged refreshed and ready to go. She walked over to Sherlock and grabbed his suit coat so she could pull him down for a celebratory kiss. "Shall we?"

"Let's go." Sherlock said as he straightened up. Securing the room, they left Harold Whitman sedated on the floor and the supplies for later pick up, and headed for one of the many restaurants. He contacted Mycroft along the way, who reported back they had three hours until they had to be at the airport. The Russians would still be unconscious well after the plane departed, so their cover was intact.

Dinner went well, they spoke back and forth in Russian, basically celebrating the near completion of a job. Naturally, they wouldn't be out of the water just yet. Sherlock had caught sight of the American brothers among the crowd.

Natasha didn't take a look herself to confirm. " _Who is it? Are they coming our way?_ "

" _I don't think so."_ Sherlock said, keeping a subtle eye on them. " _They might simply be waiting for us to move to a more private place. Bit obvious, though."_

 _"We'll take them out on our way up,"_ Natasha replied. _"If they decide they want to say hi, that is."_

" _Are you almost done?"_ Sherlock asked, glancing her over as he reached for his water. " _I want to get back to the room anyways."_

Natasha took one last bite of her food and delicately wiped her lips with her napkin. " _All done._ "

Sherlock set down his glass, and stood up. Offering his hand again, he headed for the exit again. _"Our friends?_ "

" _Shadowing us._ " Natasha snuck a covert glance over her shoulder. _"Cameras in the elevator. They'll either want to catch us after, once we step out into the hallway, or before if we give them the chance. Are we feeling generous?"_

" _Not really."_ Sherlock said, striding purposefully towards the lifts. " _But I'll follow your lead."_

 _"Then let's go up to our floor and wait for them there."_ Natasha pressed the call button for the lift and turned to straighten Sherlock's suit, making sure to keep the American's in her line of sight. _"Assuming they don't decide to hop in the elevator with us."_

The lift came, and the doors opened. Sherlock stepped through and hit the button for the floor just above theirs. Beneficial, because not only did the Americans get in with them, but also a middle-aged German couple. Sherlock offered a polite smile and stood with Natasha in the back corner. It was an awkward silent, as most rides in lifts are, and soon it stopped at Natasha and Sherlock's floor.

Sherlock had a hand on Natasha's back as they exited the lift, and just as expected, the Americans got off as well. Sherlock whispered quietly. " _Rather idiotic, aren't they?"_

 _"Extremely."_ Natasha waited until the elevator doors closed before she covertly activated her Widow's Bite. _"Are we allowed to kill these two?"_

" _White supremacists, likely mercenaries with a number of kills under their belt. The one of the left is a serial rapist, and the other one hired a prostitute earlier. I'm surprised they've made it this far, to be honest. They're quite obvious"_ Sherlock said with a quick glance behind him as he reached for his concealed dagger. " _Up to you."_

Natasha weighed the pros and cons of dealing with two dead bodies in the short amount of time they had before Mycroft's extraction team arrived. Then she weighed those pros and cons against the possibility of leaving two men such as these alive. There really was no question in her mind of what she _wanted_ to do, but practicality dictated something else. _"Let's incapacitate them in all the ways that matter,"_ she said, turning to go for the serial rapist first. "I've got a bone to pick with you."

The men slowed, both stony faced and featuring a prominent brow over beady brown eyes. The one she addressed was already reaching for the gun he'd tucked in his trousers. "More than welcome to come play with me, Red, as long as we lose Daddy-Long-Legs."

"Can't." Natasha moved forward to take the man's legs out from underneath him with two swift kicks to the knees. "He likes to watch."

The other brother was already acting while Natasha took down the first, but Sherlock stepped in. Using the butt of his gun he'd pulled from his jacket, he knocked the other to the ground. A quick flip of the gun and he had it pointed down at them with an impassive expression on his face. "Always, _love._ The next matter to address is what we should do with these two idiots now."

Natasha dealt another blow to the man's groin and glanced at Sherlock. "Let's take them to our room and let your brother's men deal with them later. I'll knock them out."

"Sounds like a plan." Sherlock nodded his agreement, looking up when the door just a few meters down opened an an elderly couple appeared. They gave him equally horrified looks and he offered a polite smile, slipping back into his British accent. "Do not worry, we're with MI6, everything's being taken care of."

The couple didn't respond but a nervous nod and then hurried back towards the lift.

"The sooner we get back to our room, the better." Natasha shifted her eyes to both men on the floor. "Move fast before we decide keeping you alive is too much trouble, and stuff your dead bodies in the nearest maintenance closet."

The men deliberated visibly, but soon the second sat up slowly. The other followed, obviously in a considerable amount of pain. Sherlock gestured with his gun towards the stairwell. Eventually the little group made their way down the stairs and down the hall towards Natasha and Sherlock's room. They didn't meet any other unsuspecting tourists, which was definitely a blessing. Natasha knocked out the man in front of her as soon as they crossed the threshold with her Widow's Bite. "We've got a trail of bodies we need to take care of before your brother's men arrive."

"And here I was hoping for a quiet evening in." Sherlock quipped, putting the gun back in his side holster after knocking out the second one. He stared down at the pair. "We should take Whitman and just head for the airport. In case the other buyers catch wind of this and descend together. I believe I can gather enough evidence to have these two collected by the police. Not so sure about the Russians."

"Then concentrate on these two and leave the authorities a note." Natasha deactivated her Widow's Bite and walked to the door. "I'll take care of Whitman while you do and you can meet me up there." She paused with her hand on the door handle. "We'll have a quiet evening in when we get back to London. Deal?"

"Absolutely." Sherlock said with a wink as he took a step backwards towards the Americans. "Though I'm not sure how quiet it will actually be, not with what I have planned." He flashed a charming smile. "Have fun."

Natasha exhaled sharply on her way out the door. "You're an evil man, Charming," she called back. "But I'm keeping you."

"I know."


	20. Chapter 20

The remaining hour, Sherlock dashed around the hotel. The visit to the American's room provided the incriminating evidence to convict the first of his crimes. And would make it very difficult for either of them to get out of the country anytime soon. The Russians, on the other hand, were currently broke, and wouldn't be informed or intelligent enough to find them in London.

Eventually Sherlock gathered their remaining items in the room, and set out to meet Natasha at the airport. According to Mycroft, the plane was already there, ahead of schedule. Sherlock informed his brother they were on their way home, another successful mission. He got a clipped response, which meant Mycroft was late for dinner, so Sherlock smirked and hung up the phone.

"Everything okay?" Natasha asked by way of greeting.

"Done, the police will be picking up our friends at any moment." Sherlock said as he stored the remaining bags and sat across from her. "And you?"

"It was no problem," she assured him. "Dealing with security while trying to move an unconscious man to the trunk of a car was the biggest challenge, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. Lord knows I've done it too many times already." She smiled faintly. "It was fun. I'd missed it."

Like a lot of their time together, after they'd discussed what needed to be discussed, Sherlock and Natasha lapsed into comfortable silence. Their mission had been a dangerous but uncomplicated one. Their goal had been met, once they'd retrieved the performance enhancing substance and its seller, Harold Whitman. No authorities had been alerted to their presence. No money from Her Majesty's Treasury had been spent. Pile of unconscious bodies aside, they hadn't killed a single one. Natasha would call that a win, but was still working on winding down and she usually preferred silence for that sort of thing. Sherlock, she knew, didn't mind.

They arrived in London early in the morning. Mycroft had been present to meet them as they'd climbed down the plane's steps, and the substance was taken by a qualified professional sent from the science and technology division of MI6. Afterwards, they'd joined Mycroft in his car for a debriefing. They dropped him off at one of his many offices when they were through, and asked to be driven back to Baker Street.

As the driver pulled the car away from the curb, Natasha reached out to hesitantly take Sherlock's hand. After a second of thought, she twined their fingers together. "We don't usually do this outside of a cover," she commented.

Sherlock glanced down at their joint hands, as if trying to discern it's purpose outside their undercover work. But again, he couldn't bring himself to dislike it, and there must be some practical aspects to it. He'd collect data and analyze later. Finding himself squeezing her hand gently, his eyes turned towards her. "We don't." He stated. "Is it something you'd like to do?"

Natasha kept her eyes on their hands, furrowing her brows. "I don't know," she admitted. "I like it, it's just not something I'm used to." She paused. "It's nice."

"I'm certain it has it's practical values as well." Sherlock said, taking a second before he stepped towards his front door. "We can evaluate and make a decision. I'm not used to it either."

Natasha's lips lifted a bit at the corner and she walked with him the remaining distance to the door, stepping inside. She let go of his hand to begin peeling off layers after they'd closed the door. "Are you tired?"

"A bit. That little bit of sleep I got on the plane can hardly be considered a nap." Sherlock said, doing the same as they walked up the stairs. By the time he was in the living room, he'd kicked his boots off, hung the jacket up on the door, and tossed their bags on the couch. "I suggest a shower, and then a nap, and then experiments. And a case if it shows up. Acceptable?"

"Sounds like a well thought out plan." Natasha left her heeled boots beside John's chair and her jacket draped over the back. "I've also got a request, but we can talk about that afterwards if you want."

"I'm sure you'll present the request when you need to bring it up. I'm not sure I can say for certain if I want to talk about it without knowing what it is." Sherlock said, turning towards her after he'd pulled his shirt off. Blue eyes running over her quickly to deduce, or at least attempt.

"I'm telling you now to gauge whether or not you're too tired to have this conversation," Natasha explained, finally turning towards him with her hands on her hips. "I need a date. For a... thing."

"That was specific." Sherlock deadpan teased, turning his head just a bit to study her some more. "Not a mission, you wouldn't call that a date. Well you _would_ call it a date, but you'd be teasing. Judging by your expression and your earlier words its something you're not sure if I'll enjoy, which means a social encounter of some kind, rather than work related. You don't have many friends, which means it's something to do with your…team. You've mentioned a few of them wanting to meet me, and you're attempting to see if I'd be willing to attend said 'thing' in order to do that. Am I wrong?"

"Are you ever?" Natasha replied with a growing smile. "You're not playing fair here, just so you know. You know I like it when you do that." She closed the distance between them and placed her hands on his chest. "It's a birthday," she explained as he pulled her closer. "A kid's birthday. One of Clint's kids. His name's Nathaniel." She paused. "You don't have to go if you don't want to."

"Is it important to you that I go?"

"Yes," Natasha replied without hesitation. "But I also understand if it's something you'd rather not do." She wrapped her arms around his waist and met his eyes. "What do you say?"

He didn't answer for a moment, his mind zipping through the details that would hopefully lead him to a decision. It was quite important to her, and he cared about her, therefore it would make sense logically for him to go. But he disliked group social events, the overstimulation and the dullness of them. But he could always escape if need be. And while children's birthday parties were not exactly the most exciting place to be, he wasn't sure the people she knew would make it boring as expected.

She was more important than his insecurities, which was an astonishing revelation in and of itself. Weighing it all, he came to a conclusion, and let out a breath. "I'll go. You do need a date after all."

Natasha beamed, the way she very rarely did. "I do," she confirmed. "It's next week," she added. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me." Sherlock said, slipping one hand under her shirt. "Apparently I'll take any excuse to spend time with you."

"It goes both ways," Natasha assured him, while pulling away so he could take the shirt off her completely. "Shower?"

"Yes, I think that was next on the list." He pulled her shirt off and tossed it towards where her jacket was draped on the chair. "Together, I'm deducing?"

"I hear it's better for the environment," Natasha said with a serious expression. "Saving water, or something like that."

"Hmm, very important to do in rainy London." Sherlock quipped, taking a step back and removing all contact from her. He turned around and walked towards the bathroom without a second glance. "Come along then."

Natasha gave his backside an appreciative once over before following. "Yes sir," she said in an official sounding voice. "Mind helping me with something else?"

"When I know what it is, I'll tell you if I mind or not."

"Always playing hard to get," she teased before pulling her hair over her shoulder and turning her back towards him so he could undo the clasp of her bra. Naturally, she didn't need help, but it was one way to get him to touch her. "If you could."

Sherlock stepped back up to her and reached for the clasp. Violinist fingers made quick work of it, but he took her bra off slowly, slipping his hands around her to replace the fabric with a gentle touch. "I don't mind at all." He said softly in her ear just before he dropped a kiss to her shoulder. "I'm deducing this is what you meant?"

Natasha closed her eyes and relaxed against him before using her own hands to undo the front closure of her tailored pants. "It is," she said quietly. "I just wanted you close."

"You can have me." Sherlock said, holding her close for another moment without speaking. "Shower then?"

Natasha opened her eyes with a bit of a smile and nodded once. "Shower," she confirmed. "Then a nap. Then experiments." She stood up straight to shimmy out of her pants and toss them towards the bed to deal with later and grabbed his hand, only then noticing she was still wearing the wedding ring from before. She let go of his hand to take it off. "Forgot about this."

An amused huff accompanied his own notice and he pulled off his own silver band and held out his hand for hers. "As did I. I'll keep them for next time."

"You liked being married to me?" Natasha teased once she'd placed the ring in his hand.

Sherlock simply gave her an enigmatic look as his fist closed around the rings and he stepped away to put them on the dresser. "I'm not certain how I should respond to that."

Natasha exhaled a laugh and turned for the bathroom. "Fair enough," she called over her shoulder.

A hot shower later spent exchanging teases and the occasional stolen kiss, Natasha changed into silky pajamas and joined Sherlock in bed for a much needed nap. Nightmares weren't nearly as frequent when she slept next to him, and even when they did make an appearance he didn't mind talking her through the aftermath until she'd calmed down. Natasha was never sure how to express her appreciation, but a quiet 'thank you' always seemed to be more than enough. This time, there were no nightmares, and by the time her eyes opened she was rested, and surprisingly, smiling.

By the time they woke up, it was late afternoon, and Sherlock had nothing else the rest of the evening. An evening they planned on using to stay in. He was already awake when she woke up, and ended up smiling with her. His next step was to lean in and kiss her. He took control quickly, and both of their pajamas were tossed away in record time.

Another successful mission, his mind was open to losing himself in her. Sherlock was more than willing to _experiment_ in any which way. The deductions and the mental stimulation and the hormone release all had their practical benefits, besides it was simply fun. Between fervent kisses, whispered words against her skin, and sheer enjoyment, they fell back into their celebratory routine. It wasn't just sex, it was sharing and vulnerability and things he was almost afraid to admit. He'd get there, but for the moment he surrendered himself to the hands of Natasha Romanoff.


	21. Chapter 21

A week and a half later found Sherlock and Natasha riding up the elevator of the previously christened Avengers Tower bearing three gifts and double the amount of weapons.

Nathaniel Pietro Barton's birthday had been set to take place at Clint's farm but Tony insisted otherwise, arguing the team should be allowed to celebrate with them since no one had given him a chance to properly celebrate Ultron's defeat a year or so before. Clint had been dead set against it but Laura had never seen the inside of the Tower, and there was only so long he could resist his wife when she set out to convince him.

Tony had assured Clint he'd take every measure to make sure they'd all be safe. Natasha promised she'd keep an eye on Tony to make sure he'd keep his word, and eventually even Pepper was chiming in with her own calm assurance. Clint's resistance wore down, preparations were made, and Natasha flew out of London to New York three days before the party to go over whatever security measures had been implemented, as promised. Sherlock arrived two days later and spent the night at Natasha's place in the city.

Late the next day, they made the trip to the lit up building sporting a large 'A' on its topmost floor, and rode up the elevator in silence but holding hands. Only the team and their plus ones had been invited, but that was still quite a bit of people by both Natasha's and Sherlock's standards. Natasha gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze as they neared the proper floor. "You okay?"

"Just fine, I'm perfectly fine, no need to worry." Sherlock said quickly, keeping his eyes facing forwards on the lift doors that were bound to open at any moment. His free hand twitched on the gift propped against his side and he drew another breath in. He'd been reminding himself ever since he flew in that she was more important than his insecurities. It had been a constant in his mind. She'd been understanding, which was a welcome surprise compared to the overwhelming majority. Still, social aspect aside, there was a bit of nervousness at meeting those she considered family. He'd manage. He was Sherlock Holmes after all.

"Hey." Natasha came to stand in front of him with a small smile. "It's just a couple hours, okay? After that, it's just you and me. I promise." The doors opened behind her to a thunderous laugh she recognized as Thor's and someone calling her name.

"Nat!" It was Clint, and she squeezed Sherlock's hand one more time before she turned to pull him out of the elevator. Clint walked over to greet her with a quick hug. Lila was close on his heels. "Where've you been?"

"Wrapping presents," Natasha said dismissively, turning a bright smile and her full attention to the little girl who'd wrapped her arms around her waist. "Sherlock, I'm sure you already know. That's Clint, and this one right here is Lila."

Sherlock let go of Natasha's hand as his quick silver-blue eyes ran over the man introduced as Clint. Deductions left him with the usual information in a short amount of time, but he hadn't decided if he'd like this individual at all. "Hello Clint." He glanced at Lila and nodded. "And Lila."

Lila looked up from where she'd buried her face in Natasha's shirt and smiled a bit. "Hello."

Natasha gestured for Sherlock to give her the box he was carrying. "That one's for you," she informed her. "Where're your brothers?"

"Nathaniel's with Laura," Clint supplied. "Connor's badgering Steve." He eyed Sherlock again. "So you're the guy."

"Apparently." Sherlock said, meeting the eyeing with his own. A stare off, both sizing each other up. "Sherlock Holmes, a pleasure I'm sure."

"I'm sure," Clint replied, waiting a beat before offering his hand. "Welcome to the party."

"Thank you." Sherlock replied, taking the man's hand with a firm shake.

Natasha eyed the interaction for all of two seconds before she decided it was going well enough that she could leave them alone. "I'm going to find Laura," she announced. "I'll be right back. Sherlock," she called as she walked away. "Wine?"

"Yes please." Sherlock said, glancing over at Natasha's retreating form. He turned his attention back to Clint, trying to decide what people were meant to say in this situation. "I appreciate the invitation... congratulations."

"Don't worry about it," Clint replied before nodding towards the rest of the group and taking a step their way. "Had to meet you somehow, right? Nat's not the most forthcoming person in the world, but I know her enough to know how much she cares about you," he explained. "That doesn't happen every day. Not for her."

Sam came up behind them and clapped Clint on the back. "Scaring the guests already?" He turned towards Sherlock with an extended hand. "Hi, I'm Sam Wilson."

"I'm just checking the guy out," Clint insisted.

"I don't scare easily." Sherlock shifted his eyes away from Clint and turned towards Sam, taking his hand to shake. "Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Steve Rogers, on the other hand, moved towards the bar where Natasha was, having left Cooper to hunt down Wanda. "Hey there stranger." He said, putting a hand on her shoulder as he leaning in next to her, nodding towards Sherlock. "That's him?"

Natasha spared a glance and a smile Sherlock's way, pouring a second glass of wine. "That's him," she confirmed. "He flew in yesterday."

"Clint's giving him the eye, but getting it right back." Steve said, clasping his hands together as he leaned against the bar. "I'm not sure who I feel sorry for more." He joked.

"Clint," Natasha answered without hesitation. "Because if he pisses Sherlock off, he won't just be dealing with scathing deductions from the man himself. He'll be dealing with me too." She flashed him another quick smile and picked up both wine glasses. "Coming to meet him?"

"I think so." Steve said, pushing off of the bar to start towards the little group. "Wouldn't miss this for the world."

The walk towards the area where Sherlock, Clint, and Sam were still standing was short, and Sherlock was speaking when Natasha and Steve got close enough. "… _consulting_ detective. The only one in the world, I invented the job."

Natasha came up beside him, offering a glass of wine. "I hope you boys are playing nice."

"Sherlock's been telling us about what he does," Sam said diplomatically, briefly tipping his head towards Clint to signal there might've been a bit of tension involved in that conversation. "Sounds interesting."

"If it's your kind of thing," Clint said with a casual shrug.

"Well it's my kind of thing." Natasha slid her free hand into Sherlock's, lacing their fingers together. "Change of subject? Sherlock, this is Steve Rogers."

Sherlock didn't have a hand to shake Steve's with and instead just nodded cordially. "Hello."

"I'm glad you're here. I've heard a lot about you." Steve smiled. "All good things, of course."

"I'm surprised." Sherlock said impassively, obviously still a bit tense and annoyed at the entire conversation, if one could call it that, with Clint Barton.

"So am I," Clint said dryly.

"You shouldn't be," Natasha interrupted with a pointed look. "How about we move this over to the couch?" She told the rest. "Where's Tony?"

"With Pepper," Clint informed her. "Something about the cake, I don't know."

Sam clapped Clint on the shoulder to steer him towards the couch. "So how long are you two staying in the city?"

"Until I'm needed in London again or Natasha needs to leave, could be tomorrow or could be sometime next week." Sherlock said.

"Well, there's nothing on to-do list right now. We're taking a couple weeks off from the training facility." Steve said, sitting down in an armchair. "You'd be needed for a case then?"

"Yes." Sherlock confirmed before he launched into a quick overview of his usual caseload.

Clint settled down beside Laura and the kids while Sam sat next to Thor and Jane. Natasha picked out a couch for Sherlock and herself just far enough away from Clint to strain conversation between the two of them as much as possible. "Even if he's not, I might just prefer flying over. I like the weather."

"I hate the weather," Jane said with an honest laugh. "But I've heard of you, and it's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Holmes."

"Call me Sherlock, please." Sherlock replied, offering a polite smile Jane's way. His eyes darted around the group as he pulled out names, careers, and associations from earlier conversation and deduction.

Laura Barton was bouncing Nathaniel on one knee, but reached to take Clint's hand. "I keep trying to get this one to take a trip to London and bring me along. Maybe this is a good opportunity."

"I still don't like the weather," Clint insisted, but this time he aimed a warm smile his wife's way.

"Well if you do, I've got a place you can stay," Natasha offered. "Never been used." She paused with a quick look at the kids. "Though if you're all going, I might need to move a few things."

"I wouldn't doubt it," Tony commented on his way over from the elevator, pushing a rolling tray with a huge chocolate cake on top. "You probably have the mother of all stashes."

Pepper's heels clicked on the floor behind him. "We're not singing 'Happy Birthday' just yet," she assured the rest. "Tony just wanted to run the cake by Laura. We have three more downstairs if you don't like this one."

Natasha set her glass of wine down. "I'll take Nathaniel," she told Laura.

"Three _more_ cakes?" Laura said with a half laugh as she passed the one year old off to Natasha. "Let's have a look, I'm sure they're perfect."

Clint turned his attention back to Sherlock and Natasha. "So what are you two?"

Sherlock's first instinct was to answer 'consulting detective and master assassin' but he was sure that's not what Clint meant. He cleared his throat and glanced at Natasha for help. "Together…I assumed that was obvious."

"Together," Clint repeated dubiously.

Natasha settled Nathaniel on her lap and fixed her eyes on Clint. "Is this going to turn into an interrogation about what his intentions are with me? Because last I checked I was a grown woman capable of making decisions on her own."

Clint looked first at one and then the other. "Fine," he conceded. "I'll leave it alone."

"Good," Sam interceded. "Now when _are_ we having cake?"

"Eager much." Steve teased.

Sherlock still gave Clint a suspicious look, as Laura answered Sam's question. "I think we can right now, this is perfect. I never say no to chocolate."

"We're here." Wanda Maximoff said as she walked in, followed closely by the Vision. "We are sorry for our tardiness, we were speaking and lost track of time."

"Wonderful, now that everyone's here…" Pepper started, smiling at Tony to get it all started.

"Right." Tony clapped his hands together and retrieved the matches. "Everybody gather round."

Natasha leaned over to give Sherlock a quick kiss on the cheek before she stood with Nathaniel in her arms. "Do I get to hold the little traitor or does anyone else want to do the honors?" She called to the rest.

"Be our guest." Laura called with a fond smile. "Namesake and all. Besides, he can't get enough of you."

Sherlock stood just behind Natasha, and Steve gave him an almost understanding look. Soon the candle was lit and a fairly decent sounding version of 'Happy Birthday' filled the space. Sherlock didn't sing, simply scanned his eyes over the crowd of fourteen people gathered there. It came to a close as the round of applause was accompanied by various laughs and a little giggle from Nathaniel himself.


	22. Chapter 22

Natasha dropped a kiss to Nathaniel's head and passed him over to his dad while Laura began cutting the cake. With everyone else busy taking slices for themselves and congratulating the birthday boy, she turned her attention to Sherlock. "Everything okay? We can leave soon."

"I'm fine." Sherlock said quickly and quietly. "I flew all the way out here for this challenge, I'm not leaving just yet. I do get the feeling your…friend doesn't like me."

"Clint?" Natasha snuck a quick peek at her aforementioned friend. "He's just overprotective," she assured him. "He's supportive, though. I'm sure he'll warm up eventually." She tried another smile. "Thank you, by the way."

"For what?" Sherlock asked, his fidgeting hand taking the initiative to reach for hers.

"For flying all the way over here to be my date." Natasha squeezed his hand. "It's pretty romantic," she teased.

"Unintentional, I assure you." Sherlock said aloofly, but he did smile.

"Hey lovebirds, you two having cake?" Steve called towards them, holding up a piece as reference. "It's really good, Clint's already going for seconds."

"I'm not surprised," Natasha retorted, earning herself a shrug and a grin from Clint. She dragged Sherlock round to find them both plates and passed one over before picking up her own. "What about _your_ love life?" She questioned Steve. "Few weeks off is more than enough time to go on a date or two."

"Not really." Steve said with an easy smile, as if he'd heard that a thousand times before. "You still can't get over trying to find me a date, can you?"

"He's lying. He had a coffee date with someone just before he came over." Sherlock said, taking a bite of cake next.

Natasha smiled interestedly. "Did you now? Was it Sharon?"

"Busted, buddy," Sam commented on his way over.

"You're next," Natasha warned. "I've got someone in mind for you already, but back on topic." She turned the full weight of her gaze on Steve. "Who was it?"

"Sharon." Steve confirmed with a bit of a grimace. "We're trying to keep it quiet though, so don't go blabbing to everyone."

Natasha huffed softly. "I make my living keeping secrets," she pointed out. "You think I can't keep this one? I'm insulted." She suppressed a smile and fixed her eyes on Sam. "So now it's your turn. When can you fly to London?"

"Whoa," Sam laughed and stabbed another piece of cake. "You don't waste time, do you? I don't know, I hadn't considered it."

"Then consider it," Natasha suggested. "This is a quality girl. Smart, pretty, sense of humor."

"Hey hey, I know you're good at that, I just know your…affinity for matchmaking." Steve interjected humorously. "Though I'm not sure why I bother, people talk."

"People do little else." Sherlock glanced at Natasha in a moment of trying to decide who it was. "Molly? Really?" It made sense. "Yes, Molly Hooper. Ideal actually, bit of a rambler, and her sense of humor has a lot to be desired. But she's very good at her job, pathologist."

"Yeah," Natasha confirmed for Sherlock. "Sam won't mind the rambles, and I think he'll appreciate her particular brand of humor."

"Sounds like you've got it all figured out," Sam laughed. "I'll think about it."

"Easier to convince than you," she teased Steve, tipping her head towards Sam.

Tony came to join them with a plate of cake in his hands a moment later. "What are we talking about over here?"

Sherlock settled quicksilver blue eyes on the new arrival, staring down his nose just a bit. But it was Steve who spoke up. "Just discussing Natasha's only hobby. It's cross-continental now."

"It's a perfectly acceptable hobby." Natasha shrugged, popping a bite of cake into her mouth. "Tony, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Tony Stark."

"Pleasure, I'm sure." Tony flashed him a winning smile. "I looked you up. You've got a reputation. And bad taste in hats."

"And you've got pretty hideous taste in sunglasses," Natasha pointed out.

Sherlock glanced at Natasha in minor confusion, but spoke for himself. "I have a website and an international reputation, the hat is image only, I'm sure you're quite familiar with that, Mr Stark."

"I like the hat." Steve said. "People don't wear as many hats as they used to."

Natasha exhaled a laugh. "Feeling a bit of nostalgia for the old days?"

"As long as it's not nostalgia for the stretchy shorts and tights he wore onstage," Tony quipped. "It's a weird hat, though," he told Sherlock.

"It's a deerstalker," Sam explained. "And it's a very practical hat under the right circumstances. It just happens to be the man's trademark now too."

"Completely by accident." Sherlock insisted.

"Trademark's happen, whether they're weird or not." Steve said with a shrug. "I don't think any of us are immune to that." He added, fixing blue eyes on Tony.

"What's that look mean, Cap?" Tony said around a mouthful of chocolate cake. "I'm perfectly aware I'm a walking, talking trademark."

"Maybe not so much with the talking," Pepper chimed in while passing through and wiping a bit of frosting off Tony's lip before she disappeared.

Natasha speared another bite of her cake. "I like the hat."

Sherlock wasn't sure how to take any of this conversation, but it didn't matter for soon he was feeling a little tug on his jacket sleeve. He glanced down to see the big brown eyes and curious expression of one Lila Barton. He cleared his throat and then said. "Hello."

"Hi." Lila said, almost shyly and then held up an unmistakable child's waterpaint picture. "Here. This is for you"

Sherlock hesitated, but took the picture. The two figures were easily recognizable, the shorter one had red hair, and she was holding hands with a much taller skinny man, whose hair was more a pile of black squiggles than anything else. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Thank you."

"Are you Auntie Nattie's boyfriend?" Lila asked.

Natasha turned away from the hat conversation with a small but fond smile upon hearing the quiet question. "Boyfriend?" She snuck a peek at Sherlock, but decided to answer with as simple an answer as possible. "Yeah, he is."

"Daddy was talking about you." Lila informed Sherlock softly.

"One can only imagine what he was saying." Sherlock quipped back. "This is a lovely painting, thank you."

Lila smiled wide and shifted over to hug Natasha again.

"Let me see," she requested softly, smoothing one hand over Lila's hair and casting her eyes over the portrait in Sherlock's hands. "That is beautiful, baby." She dropped a kiss to her head. "Thank you."

"Our little painter," Clint commented with a fond smile on his way over. "Lila, did you say thank you for the gift?"

Lila smiled up at Natasha. "Thank you."

"I'm going to put the kids to bed," Clint announced once Lila had shifted from hugging Natasha to leaning against his side. "Are you two staying around a while longer?"

Sherlock glanced at Natasha briefly for a clue, but turned back to Clint. "Probably, I don't see why not."

Clint nodded once. "I'll be right back." He stooped to pick up Lila and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. "Let's get you to bed."

"Come on Sam, I think you were going to beat me a pool yet tonight." Steve said, turning and nodding towards the pool table on the other side of the space.

Natasha stepped towards Sherlock and took his plate off his hands. "Do you play pool?"

"When I need to. It's been a while. Why?"

"I was thinking we could team up and give those two a run for their money. I've got a feeling Clint wants to give me his review on you before we leave and he might be a while yet, but we can leave just after." Natasha disposed of their plates. "I want you all to myself soon."

Sherlock glanced at the retreating forms of Sam and Steve before he nodded once. "That's acceptable, especially the last part. Not terribly sure I'm eager for the review. What does he know anyways? It's not like he tried to have an actual conversation with me."

"Clint's not used to me dating anyone," she explained. "I'm not sure he knows how to handle it just yet, but I promise he means no harm. He's just protective." She took his hand to guide him towards the pool table where Sam and Steve were already setting up but paused a moment later. "I'm..." She paused to search for the right words and hesitated before she spoke again. "Am I doing okay here?"

"We haven't started the game yet, but I'll tell you if you need improvement."

"No." Natasha exhaled a laugh. "I'm great at pool, you'll see. I meant with you. In this particular situation. I work, I don't date," she tried to explain. "I just want to make sure I'm doing this right."

"Oh. Yes, I think…I think so. I'm not sure I could really tell if you were not. I'm not exactly the most experienced individual either, at least not honestly, I suppose." He paused. "Did I do that right?"

"You did that right." Natasha stepped closer and lowered her voice a little. "I know this isn't our thing in the honest sense," she acknowledged. "But if there's something you want me to do differently, let me know." She paused. "Deal?"

"Deal. I promise. I'm not known for keeping my opinion to myself." Sherlock said, and placed a quick kiss to her temple. "The same goes for me."

"I promise," Natasha said, tugging on his hand one more time to lead him towards the pool table. "Now come on, we've got a game to win."


	23. Chapter 23

All in all, the Consulting Detective and Black Widow team beat the pants off of The Falcon and Captain America at pool. Natasha was very good, skills having been honed in between and because of her work. Sherlock, on the other hand, had played maybe twice in the last decade. But it was simple geometry and physics. Something his brain could calculate and use to his advantage, which in this case was winning a game of pool against two Avengers. Luckily Sam and Steve were not sore losers, and they kept joking about a rematch after some serious practice.

After the game, Steve and Sam excused themselves for a beer at the bar with Thor and Jane. Sherlock and Natasha took the opportunity to steal away by themselves. The couches from earlier were otherwise deserted, and they found a comfortable corner to sit. They weren't speaking, there was no need, and that was one of the wonderful things about how they operated. But Sherlock had her hand in his and absently ran his thumb in little patterns over the back of her hand. He wasn't terribly sure why he was doing that, but it seemed to be calming for him, aside from the fact that he got to touch her. He wasn't trying to think too much about those sorts of things, just let his instinct take over, it seemed to be working thus far.

Natasha certainly enjoyed the contact and the small bit of intimacy that came with it. She'd just leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes to fully savor it, when Clint dropped into a nearby seat and dragged it closer.

"Alright," he announced once he was comfortably settled in with his elbows on his knees and a beer in his hands. "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective," he stated obviously. "You've been seeing Nat here for, what? Over a year now? Still not tired of her?"

Shrewd green eyes opened to scan Clint's face, trying to decipher where he was coming from. "I hope there's a point to this line of questioning," Natasha commented without moving.

Clint kept his eyes on Sherlock while he spoke to Natasha. "I've already talked to you. Now I'm talking to him." He paused. "Sherlock?" he prompted.

"Yes, over a year. And no, I'm not tired of her. Again, I assumed that would be obvious considering I came all the way here to meet you and the rest of your little… team. As well as subject myself to this _attempt_ at an interrogation. Do continue though, should be interesting." Sherlock replied. His sharp clear blue eyes were fixed on Clint, giving him the 'why aren't you keeping up' look.

Clint didn't so much as bat an eye. "She barely talks," he continued. "She rarely smiles, and sometimes you don't know where she's disappeared to for weeks on end. She's a Star Trek fan of all things-"

"Your point," Natasha interrupted. "Get to it."

"I'm just making sure he's familiar with your less attractive qualities," Clint insisted. "If he's going to bolt, might as well have him bolt now."

Sherlock huffed in amusement. "Couples _should_ know the worst about each other. Shall we? Sometimes I don't talk for for days on end, I keep pathology specimens in the fridge, I play violin at all hours of the night, there's no intimate physical interaction while I'm on a case, I'm rude. Am I missing anything?" He directed the question to Natasha.

"No, I think that about covers it," Natasha confirmed. "My turn? I barely talk, I rarely smile and I disappear without notice. Clint's covered those. What else?" She paused thoughtfully. "Loud nightmares."

"You forgot Star Trek," Clint pointed out.

"A plus as far as I'm concerned," Natasha argued. "Anything else I'm missing?"

"You steal the sheets and distract me from time to time." Sherlock said after a moment of contemplation. "But I think that's it, or all that I've noticed. You did have a gun in hand and were planning on shooting me if I got out of line when we first met, but that's was completely understandable."

"I do still sleep with a gun close by, though," Natasha replied. "Does that bother you?"

"No, I'm quite certain you're not going to shoot me." Sherlock said. "I lose mine around the flat, does that bother you?"

"Not really." Natasha shrugged. "If I find it, I usually put it back where it belongs." She fixed her eyes on Clint. "Satisfied?"

"Somewhat." Clint darted between the two of them. "You seem... what's the right word here? At ease around each other."

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, glancing up from Natasha and back over to Clint.

"No," Clint said. "It's just... weird."

" _You're_ weird," Natasha retorted.

"Very mature." Clint lasped into thoughtful silence. "Right, then I guess I've got nothing to worry about…yet."

"And what is the scenario that you would be worried?" Sherlock asked.

"Any scenario where Natasha winds up hurt at your hands," Clint replied.

"I _think_ I can handle myself," Natasha told him dryly, but Clint's eyes never left Sherlock's face.

"I'm not talking about physical hurt here," Clint clarified.

"Caring for someone is going to cause hurt in one form or another, it's inevitable." Sherlock said plainly. "There is no point in lying. I'm not very good at personal interaction, let alone at this level. I snap at people, I'm condescending, I'm an arse. But... I believe we've found something that works. She understands me, and I'm getting there with her. So until such time as either one of us is killed, or she sees fit to move on, you can be assured that I will do my very best not to hurt her."

Clint broke out in a wide grin a beat after Sherlock finished. He rose out of his chair, pausing to clap him on the shoulder on his way to the bar. "This one's a keeper, Nat."

Natasha was still working on getting her lips moving when Clint disappeared. "You meant all that?"

Sherlock turned his head to meet her eyes. "Yes, of course." He blinked. "Is that okay?"

"Better than okay." Natasha drew him in for a soft kiss. "I'm taking you home now."

"Good, let's go."

"Let me say goodbye." Natasha stole one more kiss and pushed herself off the couch.

They slowly worked their way through the small group of people, stopping to chat a last few minutes before excusing themselves from the conversation for good. Natasha saved Steve, Clint and Laura for last, hugging all three in turn while promising at the very least to keep in touch so they'd know she was alive. Steve shook Sherlock's hand with a kind smile, Clint made an inappropriate remark that earned him a slap on the arm from Laura, and what felt like an exhausting several minutes later, Sherlock and Natasha were once again tucked into the elevator and descending towards the lobby.

Natasha's fingers twined with Sherlock's and she squeezed. "Tired?"

"A bit tired, yes." Sherlock said, glancing down at their hands briefly. He met her eyes again with a soft look. "But it was a good thing to do. I think."

Natasha guided his arm around her waist using their joined hands and tucked herself against his side, head tipped back to meet his eyes. "I have no plans on moving on from you," she told him seriously. "Just so you know."

Sherlock smiled faintly. "Plans change, but I appreciate the head's up. Frankly I'm more concerned to lose you to the next global catastrophe."

"Always a possibility," Natasha acknowledged. "But if it helps, it's a concern that goes both ways. I could lose you too." She studied his features with an openly affectionate expression. "Just one more reason to make the most of the time we've got, right?"

"Hmm, yes." Sherlock said thoughtfully, studying her face in the way only he could. "I do…care about you a great deal, Natasha. I mean that."

"I know. I care about you a great deal too. More than I thought I was capable of, and I... _mean_ that."

"I know." He echoed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "My worldview in previous years has been simple: 'Caring is not an advantage.'" He quoted. "Events several years ago changed my perspective, specifically revolving around John. Caring can be an advantage in certain situations, more so than not caring ever could. Perhaps what I'm trying to say is…thank you, for letting me care about you. You're fascinating, and never boring."

"Sherlock…" Natasha's voice was barely above a whisper, and she cleared her throat to try again. "Thank you." She moved a hand to grab the front of his shirt and pulled him down for a kiss that was as gentle as it was loving, more a physical show of the words she couldn't say than anything else. "I'm keeping you."

"Good. I don't mind." Sherlock's free hand was snaked around her waist, pulling her close to his body. Unfortunately their moment was interrupted by the lift doors. He studied her face carefully, as if drinking her in. "Shall we? I think I was being taken home."

"Yes you were," she confirmed, taking his hand once again to cross the empty lobby.

Busy New York City streets waited for them outside and they hailed a cab, climbing inside in comfortable silence. Bright lights flashed outside their window on their drive over to Natasha's safe house in Little Ukraine, the most used among her network of safe houses and the closest she had to an actual place of her own. Those slowly gave way to quieter neighborhoods and less crowded streets, until eventually they pulled to a stop in front of a neat but easily missed building with few lit up windows. They paid the driver and hustled inside, up the stairs to the apartment they'd spent the night in before the party.

Like her safe house in Paris, it was organized and clean but mostly bare. Aside from the few clothes in her wardrobe, only the color of her bed sheets (always black, always silk) and book on her bedside table (classic, text in Russian) gave any indication of her preferences. The rest she carried with her. It wasn't much.

Natasha closed the front door after they stepped inside and leaned against it, observing Sherlock for a long moment. "You know, aside from you, I don't think I've brought anyone else in here, except for a stray cat who thinks he belongs to me."

"A black cat." Sherlock turned back towards her as he took off the Belstaff, draping it over the back of the couch. "It is a safe house and you're you, I would not have expected you to have collections of people over."

"No," Natasha agreed with a faint smile. "But you seem to be making an appearance in all of them, one safe house at a time." She pushed herself off the door, removing her own trench on her way over. She draped it on top of his and moved her hands to open his suit coat. "I've been thinking about making this one a permanent place."

"And what does that entail?" Sherlock asked, his own hands moving to rest comfortably on her hips. "Specimens in the fridge?"

"No." Natasha laughed quietly. "No, nothing that fun. Just changing the name on the lease," she explained, quick fingers finding the buttons on his shirt and working their way down. "I just thought I'd let you know, since we're talking about keeping each other and all. I wasn't planning on telling anyone else."

Sherlock smiled lightly, something he'd been doing far more frequently than usual. "I'm honored." He said, slipping his hand underneath her shirt. "Should we christen it then? Your new home?"

"Absolutely." Natasha ran a hand upwards over the bit of skin revealed by his now open shirt, pushing it and his jacket completely off his shoulders. "I'm all yours."

"And I don't mind that at all." Sherlock said, before leaning in and catching her in a passionate kiss.


	24. Chapter 24

An ambassador was dead. Found in her London headquarters. This had flagged on Mycroft's radar less than half an hour after she'd been found, and naturally, he called Sherlock in. Sherlock had been working almost non-stop for the three months it'd been since his trip to New York.

Sherlock, in turn, had stolen John and found his way to the crime scene immediately. The air was tense, people milling about and getting in the way. But Sherlock's keen eye swept over the space while conducted the investigation, which involved turning and spinning and wandering around the space. Security footage, research online, and an exasperated detective later, Sherlock still had nothing to go on. The clues were minimal, it's as if the killer just walked in unnoticed, killed the ambassador, and then disappeared. Everything pointed towards an assassination, as opposed to a crime of passion. This was good, ranking at least a nine at this point.

Molly Hooper had done the autopsy quickly whilst Sherlock worked in the lab analyzing what he could. The cause of death had been fairly obvious, strangulation with a wire, thick enough not to cut into the skin. The wire itself was missing.

Sherlock worked for two days on the case before he finally narrowed down the reasons and culprit. And it was something he wasn't terribly thrilled to realize. He'd spoken to John at length already, which did little to ease his mind. Quick fingers sent a text to the woman he knew would have the answer.

 _I need you in London now. -SH_

Natasha had been about to board a plane in Dubai when she'd gotten the text. Sherlock didn't usually text her unless it was important, as a rule, and it was a courtesy that went both ways. From that alone she knew that, first, he really did need her in London, and second, that whatever he needed her for was business and not pleasure. She tucked her carry on underneath the seat in front of her and settled into her first class seat, already typing out a reply.

 _Already on my way over. Seven and a half hour flight. Pick me up? -Nat_

Not bothering to wait for a reply, she turned off her phone and cast her eyes out the small window beside her. She wouldn't sleep on the flight over. She'd read and try to distract herself from the different possibilities crowding themselves inside her head regarding what lay ahead.

Sherlock shot her a simple affirmative text and waited. He'd compiled the evidence in a file folder, the associated clues, plus the fairest whisper of a rumor of what his actual suspicions were.

A new Black Widow operative. Someone trained exactly like Natasha had been, someone capable and skilled enough to take out their target and leave no evidence behind. Someone that could blend into any environment and any situation. Someone very, _very_ deadly.

Seven and a half hours later, Sherlock stood near the arrival area at Heathrow Airport, one of his brother's black cars parked behind him. Blue eyes swept the people around him until they settled on a familiar head of red hair.

Natasha walked over, heeled boots clicking quietly on the pavement until she was standing in front of him. "What's going on?"

"The file's in the car." Sherlock said, turning to lead the way. "Two days ago the ambassador from Ukraine was found dead in her embassy's headquarters, I was called in." He opened the car door for her. "I need you to look over the evidence and confirm my suspicions. Those being correct, I need your help to decide what to do about it."

Natasha allowed the driver to take the larger of her bags and climbed inside with the smaller one. She set it aside and pulled the file onto her lap without a word, muscles tensing visibly while she reviewed the information. She kept her expression carefully blank. "Another Black Widow," she said evenly.

"Exactly." Sherlock said, reaching inside the folder to expose a picture that had been taken a few months prior. "Satellite image of a facility tucked into the mountains of western Russia. My brother's operatives found this and linked it to possible disappearances over the last ten years. Disappearances few would notice, except for an older couple, who was also found dead not three days after they contacted the agency."

"The Red Room," Natasha said quietly. "I know this place," she said without taking her eyes off the picture. "It's where I was trained, but it was supposed to be inactive. After the KGB's collapse, Department X was pretty much pulled apart. The Red Room was one of its subdivisions and it was shut down." She tore her eyes away to look through the rest of the file. "You're right, though, this is a Black Widow we're dealing with. Which means someone's decided the Red Room was worth reviving."

"It needs to be shut down." Sherlock said, keeping his eyes on her through the whole conversation. "And you are the expert on this. MI6 needs a consultant if this is going to be shut down properly."

"I'll do it," she said without hesitation. "Do we need to meet with Mycroft?" She closed the file and handed it to him, apprehension just barely noticeable in her features. "We should get to work as soon as possible if we don't want to lose their trail. Widows know how to disappear."

"The car is taking us to see Mycroft, we'll go from there." Sherlock confirmed, taking the folder without pause. He put it on the seat next to him and then reached for her hand instead.

Natasha relaxed subtly at the contact. "We're doing this together?"

"Of course, wouldn't let you have all the fun." He said. "Besides, I've done quite a lot of this investigation already, no sense in abandoning it now."

"Then we're being extra careful this time," Natasha said firmly. "No mistakes."

Sherlock gave her a knowing look. "No mistakes. There's a lot of lives hanging in the balance if we don't succeed."

"Including ours," Natasha agreed and paused briefly. "I've got your back, though."

"And I have yours." Sherlock said, squeezing her hand.

Natasha spent the ride to Mycroft's offices with her hand tucked into Sherlock's for comfort but in complete silence, too many questions crowding her thoughts. Who'd thought reviving the Red Room was a good idea? Who was running it? Who was funding it? Why were they funding it? Who had something to gain? She had a lot of questions and not nearly as many answers as she would've liked.

Meeting with Mycroft answered some. The Red Room had changed its name to R2, no longer tied to the Russian government or their previous experimental sciences division, Department X. Privately funded and privately run, R2 now benefitted only those willing to pay a steep price for the services its operatives provided.

This was both good and bad. On the one hand, taking out the R2 facility was now only a matter of eliminating the people running it and funding it, as well as the facility used to house their trainees. On the other, these were people skilled in both combat and strategy. From Sherlock's investigation, Natasha knew R2's methods were essentially the same as when she'd trained with the Red Room. There were safeguards and defenses. They'd know how to protect their interests from enemies both inside and out. And of course, she hadn't been a part of the Red Room in years. Their methods had in all likelihood evolved with the times. Upgrades and improvements must've taken place, and Mycroft had no intel on what those improvements might be, or how many operatives and trainees they had.

Sherlock and Natasha boarded a private plane provided by the British Government once they'd agreed on a strategy. The operation would be risky and dangerous, and they only had a small window of time to act.


	25. Chapter 25

They arrived in Russia by nightfall, wearing matching field uniforms and sporting the latest MI6 developed field gear. Communication devices were tucked inside their ears. Code names were given out to each. 'Redbeard' for Sherlock and 'Widow' for Natasha. They couldn't risk being spotted, so they were dropped a few miles out away from the complex that was their target, and together they made the trek over. Radio silence was the order of the day unless it was an emergency, or they were ready for extraction.

Natasha was unusually tense, and the closer they got to the complex, the more noticeable it became.

Sherlock didn't speak either as they trekked through the cold wilderness that surrounded the complex. There was just a bit of snow on the ground, for it was autumn here, and the air was stiff and thin. He didn't miss the tension radiating off of Natasha, and it was getting stronger as time passed. His mouth opened and closed about five times before he found the words, a stupid question he knew the answer to. "You alright?"

"No," she answered quietly. "I keep running through different possible scenarios in my head, and I can't help thinking... this is what _they_ taught me to do." She paused. "I'm concerned I'm putting you in danger."

"I came along willingly, and I like danger," he countered. "And if you keep up this concern, it'll slow you down, which is more dangerous. Top of your game, remember? We're prepared, we have the advantage."

"Right." Natasha made a conscious effort to relax as they neared the complex. "But if something happens and I can't get out in time, you need to blow the place up regardless of whether or not I am in there," she persisted. "Okay?"

Sherlock dodged it, replying instead with an observation. "Looks pretty quiet on the outside, I think we're good to go."

Natasha switched to the proper channel on their comms so they could talk privately. "I'll go in first to clear a path for you. Give me five minutes."

She didn't wait for a reply, moving from shadow to shadow towards the building. She an eye out for surveillance cameras, traps, or patrols, just in case. Sherlock was right, it was all but deserted on the outside, but just as she remembered it. She knew the place like the back of her hand, having walked through its hallways so many times.

Waiting for her inside were two armed guards, heavy and slow in their movements. She dispatched those quickly. Armed guards weren't the issue. The girls and their instructors, _they_ were the issue. However difficult armed guards could be, they weren't nearly as dangerous in comparison. Around a corner, two more guards were headed their way. She dispatched those too, and within five minutes she'd cleared a good portion of the hallways for Sherlock to maneuver through.

Sherlock was four minutes behind her, the bag over his shoulder stuffed with explosives. Fairly simple plan, he'd follow, placing charges at calculated critical points, and then find her. Then they'd both get out, with whoever she determined was fit to save. He worked quickly and quietly, his gun in his thigh holster, but untouched for the moment. Four down, twelve to go.

Natasha didn't notice the pattern until it was too late. She knew whom she had to get to and how, but between one group of guards and another she was being herded in another direction. She was being led towards another room, one she'd rather forget existed altogether. She'd lost a lot of things in that room, memories being one of them.

She didn't want to go back, but the way she was being played told her several things: one, going into that room was the easiest way to get to all the people she needed to take out, completing the task in one fell swoop; and two, they knew she was already in the building. Which meant they knew Sherlock was there too.

Even if she could've avoided the room and taken them out another way, allowing them to play her would provide her with an opportunity to distract them while Sherlock fled. Because that was the thing, they wouldn't let him go either. They'd send one of their Black Widows after him, and they'd kill him. They'd make her _watch_ , and then they'd kill her too. The Mother Land was nothing if not cruel to its enemies, and there's no worse enemy than a traitor.

Natasha raised her wrist to her mouth so she could speak to Sherlock through the comm. "Change of plans," she spoke quietly as she reached the proper door. "I need you to go back the way you came." She paused and decided to tack on a lie for good measure. "I'll meet you out there."

"Negative. Four minutes and two explosives away from being done." Sherlock's voice came quietly through the radio. "Where are you? I'm headed…northwest from detonation spot fourteen towards fifteen."

"I'm close by, you'd just have to follow the trail of bodies." Natasha closed her eyes and steeled herself to say her next words. "But don't," she said firmly. "I need you to find the girls and get them out, and then I need you to get out yourself, is that clear? And Sherlock..." She paused, wanting to say the words but knowing if she did Sherlock would know there was something wrong, and he would come after her. She opened her eyes and reached for the door handle. "Just be careful."

She took the earpiece out of her ear before he could reply and tossed it aside, twisting the doorknob to enter the room. Inside, the walls were red but bare, and a complicated looking chair sat in the middle, sporting monitors to one side and straps for both arms and legs, as well as the head. Cables, both thick and thin, connected to the back of it, clustering the closer they were to where the head should be. Beside it, just opposite the monitors, was another chair, with a tray of shiny instruments she knew all too well organized on top.

There were only three people inside that room, but just beyond in the observation deck Natasha could glimpse a couple more.

"Natalia Romanova," spoke the one closest to her. Male and familiar, but unwelcome.

Natasha met his eyes steadily. He smiled. "My little Natalia... I knew you'd come back, but I didn't expect it'd be so soon." He cast a regretful set of eyes over the chair. "You'll have to forgive the hasty preparations."

Natasha didn't speak, waiting as she was for him to make a move, to reveal his play. Stalling was her only plan at this point. Stalling long enough for Sherlock to get out and blow up the place without getting caught.

Ivan, the only one who'd spoken up until now, laughed. "Still as quiet as ever," he said conversationally. "Perhaps you should have a seat, then? This may take a while."

Natasha was eyeing the seat in front of her impassively. She knew that Ivan knew she'd be going nowhere near it of her own free will, but he still hadn't attempted to force her into it. She was afraid, for a moment, that they were planning on capturing Sherlock to coerce her into cooperation.

"This," Ivan gestured to a young woman with short blonde hair who'd stepped forward, wearing a black suit similar to the one Natasha wore as her own Black Widow uniform, "is our little Yelena," he introduced. "Yelena's very eager to earn her title of Black Widow."

"This is the girl you sent to London," Natasha said, more than asked.

"Yes, very good," Ivan said jovially. "You weren't supposed to know it was a Black Widow behind these murders just yet, but we weren't quite counting on your... lover to take an interest. He's very good, isn't he? It didn't take him long to figure out who was behind it, did it? Do you wonder if he'll leave you after seeing the darkness of your past, now that he's here?" Yelena took another step forward and Ivan smiled. "Does it break your heart?"

"You trained me not to have one," she retorted.

"But you resisted that training at every turn, didn't you?" Ivan gave the signal, and this time Yelena sprang forward, ready to attack. Natasha met her blow for blow, but Yelena was as fast and as well trained as she was. Lethal, and less forgiving. More of a Black Widow than Natasha had ever been because unlike her, Yelena wanted this and Natasha never had. Her instincts should've been to kill her, but what she wanted was to save her, to give her another shot at life. Yelena, however, would take her head off if she gave her so much as an inch of latitude.

"You were always the best, Natalia. Unbreakable. Made of marble, but just as difficult to carve," Ivan said.

Natasha ignored his words so she could concentrate on incapacitating Yelena, who hadn't so much as said a peep throughout the entire exchange. Yelena, on the other hand, was aiming to kill as quickly and efficiently as possible. There'd be only so long Natasha could keep up her strategy if she wanted to survive the encounter and take Ivan out, along with the rest of the people in that observation deck beyond the chair. Or maybe, just maybe, they'd all get blown to pieces together and the whole thing would be over. No more Red Room. No more R2. No more Natasha either, but she'd been living a happy life for over a year now.

Maybe that was more than people like her deserved. Maybe it was time to pay the price for it.

Sherlock wouldn't agree, and it was with him on her mind that she pushed back and forced Yelena to the floor, straddling her. Yelena didn't miss a beat, swiftly stabbing her twice in the stomach with a serrated dagger before rolling them both over so that she had the upper hand. Natasha retrieved the knife stashed in one of her boots to return the favor and held it against Yelena's throat.

"Yelena," she breathed, just one last try. "Stop. You have a _choice_."

"For the Motherland," Yelena spat back, stabbing her one more time. Natasha grit her teeth against the pain and used the moment to her advantage, taking Yelena out with a swipe of her blade before she pushed her off and staggered to her feet. Faintly, she could hear a door opening and someone approaching, but she was fading too quick. Her own knife dropped to the floor.


	26. Chapter 26

Natasha's voice over the radio had just cut out and Sherlock was not happy with apparent the change in plan.

"Nat? Natasha?" He tapped his radio when there was no response. It took him all of a second to decide what to do, and he continued on his way, whatever he knew was happening would all be in vain if they didn't take out the complex. He steeled himself against the unknown and went to finish the job. Lengthening his stride, he made for the next detonation point. The one after that happened to be in what might be considered dormitories. He hesitated by the door once he was there, glancing in the window.

Two dozen or so beds were occupied, girls aged from about three or ten or eleven, if he had to guess. The problem was, he was quite sure any and all of them could and would kill him if given the opportunity. With a deep breath in, he pushed his way inside and started speaking quickly in Russian. He walked quickly through, using a universal key to unlock their handcuffs. " _We've been compromised, everyone out. Return to the village, find shelter. Your time here is through, there will be no more training…."_

Most of the girls were suspicious, but with a bit of prompting, soon they were shuffling out and helping each other get away. They were being trained as killers, they'd be fine in the Russian wilderness the miles it took to get to the nearby village. He hardly needed to babysit. He didn't have time to. A ten year old with a three year old in her arms were the last ones out, she looked like she was two steps away from finding a knife and stabbing him. But soon she joined the rest and Sherlock was alone.

He stepped to the corner to set the final charge, testing the radio link one more time. Natasha wasn't answering. There was no good scenario or eventuality in which that was the case. Dropping the empty bag next to the bomb, he pulled out his gun and went to find her.

Unfortunately, the mass exodus of girls caught the attention of one of the few armed guards still around, and the large burly man came running towards Sherlock from the other end of the hall. A bullet took care of that. He kept moving forward, following the trail of bodies just like she'd said.

Sherlock had no idea what he'd been expecting upon entering the room. But it certainly wasn't a small group of people watching Natasha stagger. He'd deduced enough to know that those people needed to die, and it looked like they hadn't been expecting him either. He deduced he should have been dead already in their minds. He'd think about that later. They were pulling out weapons, but Sherlock was faster.

Three bullets hit three foreheads in quick succession, even as Sherlock strode through the room towards Natasha, catching her as she fell.

He couldn't spend much time assessing her, but he knew it was not good. She was bleeding. _Heavily._ The dozen or so people on the observation deck reacted now, and they had weapons. So Sherlock didn't waste any time bolting towards the door. He snuck a peek at Natasha once it was closed behind them. Her red hair was messy, her skin pale, her eyes closed, and she was too still. "Nat?! Come on, wake up! We're getting out of here."

Natasha woke up with a sharp inhale and focused hazy green eyes on Sherlock's face. "I told you to leave me behind," she breathed out. "I told you to... _Ah!_ Blow the place up."

"And I'm getting there, had to pick something up along the way." He quipped back, but his voice betrayed his concern. Long strides carried them as quickly as he could down the hall towards the exit. The door behind them flew open and the small group of armed individuals ran after them. "Actually…I think we should blow the place now, detonator is in my left shoulder pocket."

"Yes sir." Natasha fumbled for detonator with the hand that wasn't curved around her abdomen, and held it to her chest. "Ready?"

"Ready." Sherlock said just seconds before a bullet whizzed by. He swore in Russian, increasing his speed when a bullet clipped his upper arm. "Now!"

Natasha pressed the detonator without hesitation, curling further against Sherlock's chest when the force of the first blast made them stumble forward. Her body protested the movement but she grit her teeth instead of making a sound. She wasn't going to make it. She knew that much, but she wouldn't go out whining when there were still important things to say. She clutched the front of Sherlock's uniform with her now free hand and expelled a harsh breath. "Y'okay?"

"Fine, there's…" the second blast rocked the building again, a chain reaction from one to the next, they had less than a minute, "fourteen more of those." Sherlock said quickly, paying very little attention to the pain in his shoulder. His only goal was getting them the hell out of there. Logic ruled all else, but his heart was hurting right now, and it was his heart that was fueling his need to escape. To get her out safely. Still clutching her close to his chest, he burst through the door as the fifth explosion took down the hall they had just been in. The Red Room was gone.

Despite nearly falling, his feet kept moving forward, one in front of the other. Night covered the bleak Russian wilderness, but there was light enough to see coming off of the burning collapsed building behind him and the full moon overhead.

When he finally reached a safe distance away from the complex, Sherlock stopped. He sat down in the dirt, still holding her close, and switched the radio. "I need an extraction team now!" He called. "Location northeast, four hundred yards away from target. Widow is down. Repeat, Widow is down. Medical team needed STAT!" He heard the affirmative and an ETA, and then spoke to Natasha. "Still with me?"

"M'here." Natasha's breathing was ragged and her usually sharp senses were hazy, but she forced her eyes open. Two slits of bright green fixed on Sherlock's worried face, and pale pink lips lifted at the corner. "I think."

"They're on their way." Sherlock said quickly, adjusting her in such a way that he could press his hand into her abdomen to help slow the bleeding. He saw the damage, he knew it was bad, balance of probability suggested something he was in no way ready for. He met her eyes again, pleading with her. "You have to stay awake, I… just…stay with me, okay?"

"I want to..." Natasha placed a hand on top of the one he'd pressed to her abdomen and slick warmth immediately met her skin. "I didn't want to leave you... you know that... don't you?" She swallowed hard. "I wanted to stay, I…"

"Shh." Sherlock shushed her.

' _Wanted.'_ Past tense. She knew she was going to die, and he wasn't ready for that. "I've got you, you're not going anywhere….you can't, please. I need you." He sniffed, his heart taking over his head in the sudden and undeniable fact that she was going to die in his arms. He needed her to know the truth, and then he uttered words he'd never expected to say.

"I love you, Natalia."

Natasha turned her face towards him. She'd been close to dying enough times that she knew the grogginess she was feeling was a bad sign. She couldn't open her eyes. She couldn't talk. She could barely focus, and even that was because, underneath everything else, her brain was registering something important she _needed_ to address.

Sherlock loved her. Sherlock Holmes _loved_ her. He loved her, and she loved him too, and she needed to tell him before it was too late, but her body wasn't cooperating.

The more she tried to focus on the words and push them past her lips, the more they felt like they were slipping away. _I love you. I need you. I never wanted to let you go._ All she managed was a shivering whimper.

She was fading too quickly, too suddenly, with too much left undone, and even more left unsaid.

 _I love you…_ Grasping at her last bit of consciousness, she squeezed his hand a little tighter until her body couldn't hold out any longer.

 _I need you…_ Her breathing slowed, her grip slackened, and she slumped, pale and unmoving, in his arms.

 _I never wanted to let you go..._

"No, no, no, no, no…" Sherlock cried, shaking her slightly. "Wake up, please…did you hear me? _I love you_ , you can't die. Don't leave me alone." He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers and let out a stifled sob. "Please..."

The minutes felt like hours before the extraction team arrived. Just a distant sound, a dull throb in his ears in the wake of everything that had happened. Important, but he didn't have to register it.

Their helicopter landed nearby, the medics were already running towards them. The next few minutes were a blur for Sherlock. He was pulled away from the limp body of the woman he fell in love with, and manhandled to the helicopter by two of the agents. Illogically struggling to get back to her, he called in a strangled voice. "Nat!"

After being pushed inside and ordered to get out of the way, he collapsed into a seat. They brought Natasha in next on a board and took off. The helicopter ride to the nearest hospital was spent in a flurry of motion by the medics that contrasted the complete stillness of Sherlock. He didn't blink, he didn't move, he just fixed his eyes on Natasha as they struggled to keep her alive. They'd lost her twice, restarting her heart each time, in between hooking up intravenous lines for blood, intubating her, and injecting her with epinephrine. He knew the science, he'd studied what happens to the body in these precious moments before death. But it didn't matter, he was going to lose her and there was nothing he could do to stop it. No science, no logic, _nothing_. The great Sherlock Holmes was a broken man, a shell as he watched the woman he loved slip further and further away.

Natasha Romanoff, a dangerous woman with many names and many faces. He loved her, and he didn't even find that fact startling or unusual. Falling in love had been a slow process, but a sudden realization. He'd never done it before like this, so finding the words to describe it was difficult. Love was illogical, it would slow him down, distract him, compromise him. The crack in the lens, the fly in the ointment. But…maybe not. She was interesting, so he wasn't bored. She didn't steal him away from cases or missions, she joined him and helped him. She _understood_ him. Perhaps this love was logical, to an extent.

He knew a few things, he cared deeply for her and would do whatever it took to make her happy. He would give whatever he had to in order to ensure she was safe and loved. She was indescribable and was a new puzzle every day. She was determined, and loyal, and strong, and intriguing, and cunning, and beautiful, and working to prove herself. She'd saved his life countless times.

He loved every part of her, every quality. From the way her eyes sparkled when she teased him, to the serious nature she applied to her work. From the horror of her history to the brightness of her life with him, Sherlock Holmes loved Natasha Romanoff with every fiber of his being.

And now he was watching her die on the floor of a helicopter.

Twenty long minutes later, they'd touched down at the hospital and Natasha was pulled away from him yet again. This time the doors closed and he was left standing alone. Her blood had stained his hands red.

* * *

For Sherlock, it would be a long two days. She disappeared into the operating room, and he'd been immediately grabbed by a nurse for his bleeding shoulder. He then spent almost thirty minutes answering questions for hospital paperwork. _Name: Natasha Holmes, date of birth 22 Nov 1984… previous medical history, home address, known ailments, allergies, what had happened to leave her with three stab wounds in her abdomen?_ He'd given a generally vague story, to avoid any serious problems, and decided to forgo any discussion with the local police. Mycroft would cover it all up. He also changed her last name, just in case there were still people searching for her, seemed a good a decision as any. As her husband, he'd have better access to making medical decisions, if it came to that.

An hour later he'd been approached by another nurse and sent to clean himself off, he'd gotten a clean pair of scrubs to change into until other arrangements could be made. The hours dragged on while she was still in surgery, giving him time to contact Mycroft to explain the situation.

After she was out of surgery, he curled up in a chair beside her bed in the intensive care unit to keep watch. She was alive, and that's all that mattered, but she was still in critical condition. She wasn't stable enough to be in a private room just yet. Thankfully, the nurses decided to make an exception for him to stay with her, as opposed to kicking him out.

Two days of waiting passed far too slowly and gave him too much time to think. For if he had the courage to say those words to her, he was utterly terrified she'd never say them back.


	27. Chapter 27

Natasha's first time waking up didn't last long. Her head felt heavy. Her thoughts were fuzzy. Her arms felt oddly stiff at her sides and her throat felt raw, but the pain was distant. She'd gone back to sleep almost immediately. Next time she'd woken up, she hadn't been doing much better, but the longer she'd been awake, the more her heart rate increased and the shallower her breathing became. She was panicking.

 _Where am I?_ Hospital, right. _Where's Sherlock?_ Nowhere in sight. _Alive?_ She didn't know. _Unhurt?_ She didn't know that either. They'd blown up the complex, she remembered, but had everyone gone down with the building? There was always the possibility someone could've escaped, and she'd been all but unconscious in his arms.

The idea that something might've happened to him while she was powerless to stop it was enough to cut off her breathing altogether. _Stupid, Nat. Focus._ Another set of memories trickled in, hazier but real. _I love you, Natalia_. He'd said he loved her. She'd been dying in his arms, and he'd been telling her that he loved her. Panicked green eyes widened in alarm, she sat up abruptly enough to make her head spin. Or maybe it was the room that was spinning. _Unimportant. Focus._

"Sherlock," she rasped out.

The nurse was the only one the room, a grandmotherly woman with a long shock of white hair and a kind face. She spoke in Russian, using gentle hands to push Natasha back down to the bed. " _You said_ Sherlock? _Your husband._ "

 _Husband_. Natasha latched on to the word. They weren't wearing rings. If the nurse thought Sherlock was her husband, someone told her so. Sherlock was the likeliest candidate. He was alive. _Thank God_.

" _Yes, my husband_ ," she replied. " _Is he here?_ "

" _He is here, I will fetch him soon. Just lie still. Understand?"_

True to her word, she made sure Natasha was staying down on the bed and then left the room. Ten seconds later it was Sherlock himself who entered through the wide doors, striding quickly to the bedside. His hair was damp from a recent shower, and he was in a clean jumper and jeans. "Thank God..." His voice was a whisper at most.

Natasha sagged on the bed, pale green eyes welling up with tears. _"I love you,_ _"_ she said said shakily. " _I love you. I'm so sorry I couldn't say it back, but I love you,"_ she continued in Russian.

Sherlock grasped one of her pale hands in his, using the other to cup her face. She loved him, she was alive and she loved him back. And he took a bit longer to process that than he would have liked. He probably should have known, but hearing her say it was more fulfilling than he could have predicted. His eyes met her beautiful but bloodshot green ones, and he breathed out, in Russian. " _I love you too… it's alright, you're safe now."_

She leaned into his touch, clutching at the large hand cupping her face. " _Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"_ She swallowed thickly, making a bit of a face when at her painfully dry throat. " _They were shooting at us, I remember, and you were…"_

" _I'm fine."_ Sherlock let got of her hand and reached for the bottle of water to offer her. " _Barely a scratch, really. You, on the other hand, nearly died."_

Natasha wiped her cheeks and carefully sat up to take the bottle. " _Barely a_ _scratch,_ " she said. " _Did the girls get out okay?"_

" _Dispersed into the nearby village, we alerted the local authorities and they're helping them find places to live."_ Sherlock said, stepping away for just a moment to drag his chair over and sit down. " _We have a plane standing by to take us back to London as soon as you're stable enough to travel."_

"It's going to be a while before I'm back to mission ready," she finally croaked in English.

"Which is why you're moving in with me." He replied, reaching to take her hand again. "I've got a doctor on call, plenty of room, and it should be quite safe, considering the overprotective wing of the British Government."

"Are you sure?" Natasha asked once she'd downed a decent portion of her bottle of water, sniffling in spite of herself. "It might be a couple of weeks."

"I wouldn't have offered if I wasn't sure." Sherlock said quickly. He hesitated before adding. "I love you, Natasha, I think I can live with you for a few weeks."

Natasha smiled weakly. "I don't think I'll get tired of hearing you say those words," she said. "I love you too." Her eyes swept over his features in silent appreciation. "Any idea how long it'll be before I'm stable enough to fly?"

"I've been arguing with your doctor, he thought a week if you woke up by tomorrow." Sherlock said. "But he doesn't know you, and we have a medic who's scheduled to fly back with us. I'm going to push to be headed home tomorrow or the next day."

"Good." Natasha expelled a relieved breath. "I hate hospitals." She didn't need to explain why, he already knew. He'd seen the Red Room now after all. Downing the last of her water, she handed over the empty bottle. "So you're my husband now," she continued in a bit of a teasing tone, despite the tired set of her mouth and the strained crinkle of her brow.

"It seemed logical." Sherlock said, after he'd tossed the bottle in the bin. "Granted, you were unconscious at the time, so you really couldn't turn me down."

"I wouldn't have turned you down," she said seriously. "If our roles had been reversed, I would've done the same." She paused. "Although, frankly, I hope our roles are never reversed."

"I'd agree, completely, for both our sakes." He breathed out. "But no promises."

Natasha closed her eyes. "So be honest with me," she spoke at length. "Do I look as bad as I feel?"

"Yep. You look like you almost died…because you did. Four times." Sherlock said, running his thumb over the back of her hand. Vulnerability was in his tone, worry on his features. "I thought…I thought I was going to lose you."

"Hey." Natasha rolled her head on her pillow and cracked her eyes open. "You didn't and I'm okay. I'm here, I just need a shower and maybe some make up."

Sherlock let out a little amused huff. "You'll get there, right now I'm just glad you're still here."

"I'm glad I'm here too," she said. "I wasn't ready to let you go. I'm still not." She breathed in and burrowed underneath the thin covers of her hospital bed, unconsciously seeking a bit of warmth. "I'm going to sleep but don't go just yet, okay?"

"I'm not leaving you." Sherlock brought the back of her hand up to kiss.

Natasha fell asleep a few minutes later with Sherlock's hand still in hers. She knew that Sherlock, like her, was the restless sort, but the contact lulled her into a sense of safety and kept whatever nightmares might've cropped up at bay. They were safe because they were together.


	28. Chapter 28

The next day proved that Sherlock's pushing and arguing with her doctor had in fact paid off, and she was allowed to leave the hospital to board a plane. Natasha had always been an exemplary patient in any case, fully aware that if she wanted a swift recovery she needed to put forth the effort.

Once they'd arrived in London, she'd settled quickly into 221B with Sherlock's help. Her bags had been delivered to his flat in their absence, and Mrs. Hudson had fussed over her all the way up the stars until she'd been sent away with a request for tea. The minute they were left alone, Natasha made the slow journey to Sherlock's bedroom and rummaged through her bags for a pair of silky pajama shorts and a matching camisole. The flight, drive, and climb up the stairs had been enough to tire her out, but she was determined to take a shower.

"I may need a little help," she said once she'd zipped her bag closed and sat on the bed for a little rest. "If you don't mind."

Sherlock hung up his Belstaff and glanced at her to evaluate her status. "Not at all. Anything you need. I think Mrs Hudson will be back shortly, but she'll probably start making biscuits or something. She does that."

Natasha's lips quirked up at the corner. "She's nice," she commented and carefully pushed herself off the bed. "And I wouldn't mind a biscuit or three right now. Just stay close by and I'll call you if I need you, okay?" She eyed him from the doorway. "Do you have to work?"

"Not right now." Sherlock said, slipping out of his shoes as he rolled his shirt sleeves up. "I'm taking today off unless I get a text from Lestrade. John's coming by soon to take a look at you."

"I'll be around," she quipped, turning for the bathroom. "Probably getting my ear talked off by Mrs. Hudson," she spoke through the open door.

Sherlock leaned on the open door frame with his arms crossed, peeking at her just as her shirt landed on the ground. "She likes you. She'll talk about you for at least a week after you're gone, most of which I'll tune out."

"Lucky for you, that won't be for a while." Natasha turned towards him, fumbling with the fastening on her jeans. She managed to slide them halfway down her hips before removing them got too difficult, and gestured for Sherlock to help her. "Here's hoping you don't get tired of me before then," she continued.

"It's a possibility, but more likely the other way around." Sherlock said, stepping into the room. He knelt down in front of her, gently pulling her jeans down to the floor. Tilting his chin up to look at her, he gestured for her to step out of them, and then tossed them into the corner. "I predict we'll settle into a sort of routine, one that works best for both."

"I promise to make it easy." Natasha ran her hands through his curls once before he rose back up to his full height. "Besides, I get to watch you work for longer than I have since I started paying you visits. I'm looking forward to it." She smiled fondly and reached behind her with one hand to undo the clasp of her bra while holding up the front with the other. "Now unless you plan on joining me right now and giving Mrs. Hudson more to talk about, go and wait for me outside. I'll call if I need you."

"I'm tempted. But I'll be outside." Sherlock said with a soft smile, reaching to just brush his fingers over her bare shoulder. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and then disappeared out the door to the living room.

Natasha watched him slip away with a growing smile, peeling off the rest of her clothes to step inside the shower. She took her time underneath the spray of water, mentally going over events and compartmentalizing the emotional response that came with the memories that had risen to the surface. She'd hoped she'd never have to go back to the Red Room for anything and, after the KGB's fall, she'd been sure she'd never have to. Seeing the place again and revisiting what she'd been through was a particular horror she hadn't taken into account. Sharing that experience with the man she loved, having him glimpse with his own eyes some of the things she'd been through, was a horror all on its own.

Still, he wasn't running away. Natasha shouldn't have been surprised, but she was. Sherlock loved her and true to his word had saved her and brought her to his home so she could heal. She wanted to show him how much she reciprocated that love in full, but her body was more of an obstacle than it was a tool at the moment. She'd get there.

Done with her shower, Natasha dried herself off, being extra gentle with her abdomen, and carefully slipped into the silky pajama bottoms and camisole she'd chosen for herself earlier. She brushed her teeth, finger combed her hair, and tidied up as much as her body would allow before deciding to steal one of Sherlock's dressing gowns and wander out into the sitting room.

John Watson sat across from Sherlock in their chairs by the fireplace, and turned his head as soon as Natasha approached. He gave her a compassionate smile as he stood up. "Natasha, it's good to see you."

"Yoohoo." Mrs Hudson called as she stepped into the room. "Sit down, dearie, I'll get your tea ready in just a tic, there's biscuits, and I'm in the middle of making you all dinner."

"Sorry for the bombardment, Mrs Hudson doesn't know what 'no' means." Sherlock droned.

"Like you were going to cook." John quipped to Sherlock, but kept his eyes on Natasha. "Mind if I take a look?"

"No, go ahead. It's good to see you too." Natasha smiled softly, padding over to the couch on bare feet. "Thank you, Martha," she added.

Mrs. Hudson smiled in response and gently placed a cup of tea on the coffee table while John came over. He sat next to her, gently moving her camisole up so he could inspect her bandages, experienced fingers carefully moving over the wounded area. Between the surgery scar, and the stitched wounds themselves, it wasn't pretty. A few seconds later, he brought the fabric of her shirt back down, and met her eyes, his doctor voice steady. "It doesn't look as bad as I expected, but I'd like to be cautious. I've already written a prescription. Your drugs are in a bag on the table, take as instructed. I'll be coming by tomorrow to change the bandages, and then as needed after that. And, of course, no physical activity, which you probably aren't feeling up to anyways. Questions?"

"Yes." Natasha pulled the maroon dressing gown she'd stolen closer around her body and picked up her cup of tea. "How are Mary and Josi? And how are you?"

John let out a little laugh as he sat back. "We're all doing well, I've been busy between cases and the clinic, Mary's still at home, Josi's growing like a weed too."

"At the rate you've been feeding her..." Sherlock piped up.

"Anyways, we'll be coming for dinner later in the week." John said with an easy smile. "If that's alright with you."

"Yeah, of course," she agreed. "Just don't expect either one of us to cook," she joked with a bit of a nod in Sherlock's direction. "Unless you want food poisoning. In which case, I can definitely deliver."

John laughed again. "Don't worry, we'll pick something up. Learned that a long time ago with Sherlock." He stood up, moving to the door to grab his coat again. "I should get going, just ring me up whenever if you need anything, yeah? Sherlock, you too."

"Mmhmm." Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Mrs. Hudson, what are you making?" John asked, gesturing for the older woman to join him. He flashed Natasha another smile as Mrs. Hudson started rambling about the dinner and soon the two were gone.

Natasha moved over to John's chair and set her nearly empty tea cup on the coffee table beside it. Hesitating a moment, she moved to perch on the edge of the seat cushion and fixed her eyes on Sherlock. "I don't know how to thank you."

"Are you required to?" Sherlock asked, his hands diving down until they were clasped in his lap instead. "I have a good reason to want you alive, there's no need to thank me for that."

Natasha smiled. "I don't know if I'm required to or not, but I felt I should at least mention it. This is when I would usually say I owe you," she explained. "But you and I don't work like that do we?" She met his eyes and her smile grew. "I like it that way."

"You started it." Sherlock said, unable to not smile back. "It's good, because you saved my life more times and I'd have a hard time paying off that debt."

"Well, I have a good excuse to want you alive too." Natasha held his gaze for a long moment before finally leaning back in John's chair. "Hungry?"

"Getting there. Dinner should be up soon anyways, and I've promised to clear off the table first." Sherlock said. "Are you?"

"Getting there," she echoed. "I'm trying to decide how long we have until Mrs. Hudson comes back in here and if I'd have enough time to crawl onto your lap and steal a quick kiss from you."

"More than enough time by my calculations," he smiled again. "And if not, I don't care. She needs something to talk about anyways."

Natasha carefully rose from John's chair and moved over to sit in Sherlock's lap, smiling affectionately just for him. She took his face in both her hands and placed a gentle kiss to his forehead first, then a sweet one on the tip of his nose, and finally a reverent one on his lips.

Sherlock held her gently, very mindful of her injuries. The dust was settled, and he wasn't seconds away from losing her, and he had decided he still loved her. It wasn't a frantic emotional response, it wasn't a passing experience, it was long term. And after they'd pulled away from the kiss, he slipped a hand into her hair to cradle her head and then smiled softly at her. "I love you."

"I love you too." Natasha lowered her hands to his chest and met his eyes to drive her point home, fully aware of the weight her words carried. "You know what's funny? You did turn out to be a bit of a knight in shining armor after all," she teased quietly. "Or a knight in tactical gear and kevlar, which is frankly better."

"Is it?" Sherlock quirked a brow. "I suppose with your background, and the current culture that it would be better. If you're looking for armor, one only need go so far as my brother's house. Which I'd be more than happy to take you so we can redecorate, but I'm not trying one on."

"Of course not," she agreed. "It's heavy and it limits your range of movement. Not to mention, it's a pain to slip into and out of. It's anything but practical." She tipped her head to the side and studied him. "I'm sure it would suit you, though. In another time and place." Her voice took on a teasing edge. "Maybe one day you'll have to go undercover at a Renaissance faire. I'd join you."

"You are incorrigible." Sherlock said, leaning just forward to bop her nose with his. "But the teasing means you're at least on your way to feeling better. Considering you nearly died five days ago, that's a very good thing."

"Dinner's ready and I'll just…" Mrs. Hudson interrupted as she walked into the kitchen with a dish of some sort. When she caught sight of the couple, she smiled fondly. "Oh, aren't you two lovely. You know, when I was first married…"

Natasha closed her eyes and briefly rested her forehead against Sherlock's. "God help us, not stories about when she was first married," she said under her breath, more to coax another smile out of Sherlock than anything else. Reluctantly pulling herself out of Sherlock's arms, she rose to her feet and tied the sash around her waist to secure the dressing gown. "Let me take that off your hands, Martha," she offered on her way over. "I'm sure you've got things to do."

"Nonsense dear, you rest yourself. Sit down, I'll serve this up." Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head. "Sherlock, please come here and clear the table. You're not feeding your girlfriend with a pile of books in the middle and your dirty old microscope here."

Sherlock huffed out his nose as he pushed himself out of the chair. It was going to be an incredibly odd few weeks to say the least.


	29. Chapter 29

For the next week and a half, Natasha and Sherlock fell into a routine. Sherlock had picked up where he'd left off in terms of work, and Natasha had found it entertaining to both watch him work while he was at home and to serve as a sounding board whenever he needed one. She kept up with Steve, Clint, and the rest of the Avengers during the rest of her time, in between reading and, on desperate occasions, throwing daggers at Sherlock's clue wall. She made sure to keep the activity from the landlady downstairs.

Sitting still wasn't something she particularly enjoyed when she had nothing to work on, but she took to it easily enough. Same as she took to anything else, she weathered it because she had to. Sherlock's company made the entire thing easier, in any case, and much to her surprise she found she didn't mind the small bit of domesticity that came with their temporary arrangement. Perhaps because they respected each other's space as much as they enjoyed encroaching on it from time to time.

That her nightmares were, for the most part, kept at bay when she slept with him might've had something to do with it too. She was restless, but she was also happy with the arrangement. Still, when an interesting case popped into Sherlock's email account, she was itching to go out with him.

"Where does that one rate on your scale?"

"Seven, almost eight." Sherlock said distractedly, glancing up at her after he'd fired off a reply to arrange a place to meet. He turned in his chair to get a better look at her. "You want to go, don't you. Could be dangerous."

Natasha didn't want to seem overeager, but there was really no point in pretending. "You say dangerous and I hear fun." Smiling, she bit her bottom lip and leaned forward. "Mind if I join?"

"Not at all." Sherlock said, turning back to the computer as the email alert sounded. He smirked a bit and stood up, already zipping to the door for his coat. "And we're off, get your shoes."

Natasha retrieved her boots and zipped them on. She grabbed her coat and picked up one of her guns on her way out the door. "You're the best," she spoke under her breath as she climbed down the stairs.

* * *

" _Dear Mr Holmes._

 _My name is Violet Hunter, I'm a twenty-two year old live-in nanny currently working for Jacob and Anna Rucastle of Winchester. Their son is six, and he is a terror in nature and nurture. I was hesitant to take the position, especially after being shown the house I was going to be living in. However, Mr Rucastle was quite insistent that they needed me specifically, and upon a bit of negotiation raised my salary to twenty-seven thousand pounds a year. This is far more than I'd have expected, considering my limited experience._

 _I started about a month ago, and since then I've noticed many things that I would categorize as odd. One of the negotiations was that I cut my hair. It was a bit strange, but it was something I was planning on doing anyways, so I agreed. Since then, Mr. Rucastle has asked me to do several things that are not directly involved in caring for the child. One late afternoon he had me sit in the front living room wearing a specific colored jumper. I've also found locks of red hair, identical to mine, but I'm sure they aren't. The groundskeeper and cook are married, and they seem to be hiding something, they don't speak to me otherwise._

 _Just yesterday, I entered the wing of the house I was not allowed into by accident while looking for the child. It was dark, and something moving caught my eye. I was frightened and got out as quickly as I could. I ended up running right into Mr. Rucastle, whose attempt to assure me was…very disturbing. He was trying too hard, and his manner was completely wrong. This was the turning point to me contacting you._

 _The house itself is quite large, and in addition to the forbidden wing, I've also been excluded from leaving the house after dark. Again, the salary is fantastic, so I didn't raise much of a fuss initially. However, after this time and watching this family I get the feeling that something is wrong. I don't feel safe exactly, but I can't pinpoint it, something is wrong. I can't go to the police, I would greatly appreciate your expertise in this situation._

 _Thank you very much for you time,_

 _Miss Violet Hunter "_

Sherlock did not speak on the cab ride to his brother's, and only a few sentences as they not so subtly stole a car for use in the hour and twenty minute drive to Winchester in Hampshire. The silence was normal when he was working a case, and they had an understanding about it.

Eventually, Sherlock pulled the black car up at the large country estate home just west of the city. The gardens were extensive as well, with a couple outbuildings scattered around and dozens of beech trees. Their leaves were just changing colors. The detective's grey-blue eyes scanned the area as they walked towards the copper colored front door. With a quick ring of the bell, he clasped his hands behind him and waited.

It was Miss Violet Hunter who opened the door, sporting a cerise colored jumper and a careful smile. Her eyes darted from Sherlock to Natasha, and back again before she spoke. "Mr. Holmes," she moved aside, "please come in."

"Please, call me Sherlock." He said as he stepped inside the house, eyes always searching. "They are both out, your employers."

"Yes." Violet led them into the sitting room and closed the door. Just enough to keep anyone who might show up at bay, but open enough to hear them approach before they reached the door. Natasha took note and settled into a chair, quiet but watchful. "Is there anything I can get either of you before we start?"

Sherlock didn't sit, and instead paced around the room. He turned back towards their hostess, offering a polite smile. "Nothing. Just begin, starting with the most important details."

Violet hesitated, but moved behind one of the chairs and gripped the backrest with both hands. "Well, out of what I've written in my email, I suppose my most pressing concern is the forbidden wing upstairs. It's driving me mad and I can't help feeling there's something really quite wrong with it," she admitted. "I can't go in there without a key, otherwise I would've shown you upstairs right away," she assured him. "Honestly, I just wish the whole thing could be settled so I can decide whether I should stay or leave for certain." She paused. "Is there anything you can do? I'll assist however you need, even finding the key for you if you need it. Mr. Rucastle keeps it on himself at all times, except when he's sleeping."

"Not necessary, I brought a lock pick." Sherlock said, flashing another smile. Whether he was talking about an actual tool or his companion, it was up for debate. "I believe you've been hired to double as someone your employer is keeping locked away upstairs. Still working on the motive, but it's likely money."

"Locked away? Then perhaps we should go do that right now," Violet spoke once he'd finished. "I'll go make sure the cook and groundskeeper are busy, or make them busy myself." She moved towards the door and peeked out into the hallway. "The forbidden wing is on the third floor."

Natasha rose off her chair and opened her coat. "I'm assuming you were referring to me when you were talking of lock picking?"

"You are better than I am, speed is of the essence. I'm quite certain Mr. Rucastle owns a gun, Violet may be in danger if we don't expose this correctly and quickly." Sherlock said, already turning to follow their client to the hallway. "Let's go."

"Yes sir." Natasha reached into one of her coat's inner pockets to pull out her own slim and state of the art kit.

Violet peeked out one of the windows when they'd reached the top of the stairs. "Groundskeeper's outside," she told them. "I'll go and lock him out of the house before getting to the cook while you two run upstairs."

"Third floor right?" Natasha slipped past them both to continue on, keeping her footsteps silent and shrewd green eyes on her surroundings.

"Yeah, east side…" Violet replied, giving them one more look before she slipped away to find the cook.


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock strode alongside Natasha, staying perfectly silent as they moved through the house. Three flights of stairs later and they approached a relatively inconspicuous door to the right of the staircase. Sherlock glanced it over and nodded his affirmation. Natasha bent in front of the lock and got to work. Steady hands pried a soft click out of the opening within a few seconds, and she straightened to stow her kit away. "I'll stand guard," she spoke quietly.

Sherlock had his gun too, but he was hoping they wouldn't need them. His deductions had led him to the most obvious answer. Once he had the young redhead female out of her prison, he'd be calling in the local police. Setting her free was one thing, but bringing the cruel people who'd kept her locked up was the last step to solving the puzzle. The final magician's trick. With Natasha standing by, he started searching, using his little flashlight to sweep the dark hallway and peek into bedrooms, until he reached another one that was locked. "Got it." He said quickly.

Violet came up the stairs just as Natasha turned to follow in Sherlock's footsteps. "Stand watch," she told the young woman over her shoulder, and slipped in to pick the new lock as well. "Want me to go in first? If this girl's been in here for a while, a gentle approach might be best." She paused with her hand on the doorknob and her eyes locked with his. "Your case, your rules."

Sherlock paused, and then nodded. "I know the skills I am lacking in, go first. I'll be right here if you need me."

"Watch your back," Natasha replied, turning the knob and quietly slipping inside the dark room. "Hello?" Her tone was gentle and quiet. "My name's Natasha and I'm here to help you."

A petite young woman with messy short red hair was curled onto a bed in the corner of the room. The shade was shut, and she had her hands curled into fists in front of her. Big brown eyes were open wide as they took in Natasha. "I'm Alice." She said quietly, the stutter starting when she spoke again. "I…I'm...wh-why are you…here."

"I'm here to get you out, if that's alright." Natasha left the door only halfway closed and crossed over to kneel beside the bed, close to her face. "Are you hurt?"

"N-no." Alice replied, shaking her head just noticeably. "I'm…m supposed to st-stay though."

"Not anymore," Natasha said. "If you want to leave, we can go right now. Nothing will happen if you do. You have my word." She paused and tipped a little her head to meet her eyes. "Do you need help getting up?"

"The…the dog'll…will chase me a-and bite me.." Alice said, her fisted hands clenching in fear. "You…you can st-stop 'em?"

"Absolutely," Natasha said seriously. "Protecting people is what I do." She rose from her position on the floor and extended a hand, being careful to keep her distance so Alice didn't feel crowded. "Come on, I've got a friend waiting for us just outside the door."

"My…my friend hasn't…been here." Alice replied, hesitating just a moment before she reached for Natasha's hand. A long moment later, the petite young woman was standing on her own. "I…don't know why. I lo-love him. He's…like me."

That gave Natasha pause. "I think your friend's been trying to see you," she told her cautiously. "If you want to, we'll find him as soon as we get out of here. I'm giving you my word on that too." Turning towards the door, she pulled it open and stepped out into the narrow corridor first. "She's fine. She's not hurt." She met Sherlock's eyes. "Involuntary confinement aside."

Violet poked her head inside the door. "You all better hurry if you want to get out of here before Mr. Rucastle shows up."

Alice blinked a couple times at Violet, but let herself continue to be lead by Natasha towards the door.

Sherlock gave Alice one look over, and then headed for the door where Violet was. "Let's go." He said to Natasha, speaking to Violet next. "Call the local police and get them out here as quickly as possible."

"Right away." Violet retrieved her mobile and moved to one of the windows to make the call. "There's a man on the grounds outside," she spoke after a beat.

"Alice's friend?" Natasha guessed.

"Why else would Rucastle have Violet double?" Sherlock asked, enjoying the dramatic reveal. "There had to have been someone wanting to get Alice out. Losing Alice meant losing the money she gets from her mother, Rucastle's first wife. She was the original owner of this estate and died under mysterious circumstances three years ago."

Alice disentangled herself from Natasha to move in next to Violet. The two young women like twins from the back. She put her hand on the window and smiled. "Peter!" No stutter. "I have to see him!"

"Then stop standing and keep walking, we'll get there." Sherlock quipped, his voice lacking bite. He turned in a dramatic flair of black coat.

Natasha couldn't keep herself from smirking as she hurried to follow in Sherlock's footsteps. Alice was close behind, with Violet bringing up the rear while she exchanged information with the police department on her phone.

"They're on their way," she said once she finished.

Alice pushed past the rest of them in her eagerness to climb down the steps and reach the front door. Natasha fell in step with Sherlock, keeping her hands and eyes to herself for the moment. "Predictions on Mr. Rucastle's willingness to use his gun once he finds out we've let his meal ticket go free?"

"Judging by how Miss Hunter described him, I'd guess close to ninety percent. All the better for convicting him too." Sherlock said as they descended and stepped out on the ground floor.

Alice by this time was very excited to get outside, all fear of the dog was gone. Sherlock had been right, she'd been the meal ticket from her rich late mother. The slightly developmentally disabled girl was vulnerable, and should never have been left with a father that did something like that. Sherlock was angry, if anything. And was more than anticipating punching the man in the nose.

The ground floor was empty for the moment, Violet mentioned something about the cook being in the kitchen for the new couple hours. So, Sherlock continued on to the front door. "Plus there's the dog to take into account. I'll take care of it, don't overdo yourself. Dr. Watson may order you an extra couple weeks of rest."

"Yes, I know," Natasha spoke under her breath with a short sigh. "No physical activity. I remember." She stepped out of the house with him, hands shoved inside her coat pockets. "Please tell me you'll be hurting this man, though?"

"If he's stupid enough to get close to me." Sherlock quipped as Alice pushed past him. The young black man on the side of road was running to meet them. And it was only as the couple was reunited that a sharp series of dog barks sounded.

Violet, who'd stopped just outside the door, her phone still in her hand, cringed, but not as much as Alice. Conditioned response. The nanny shuffled in place. "I think he's home, they don't let the dog out during the daytime otherwise."

"I'll stay with Violet, Alice and her friend," Natasha told Sherlock. "Doesn't take much to shoot anything that comes their way. You go on and find Mr. Rucastle. Do what you need to do."

"Police should be here any minute too," Violet added.

Sherlock nodded his understanding, and walked away. Jacob Rucastle was the type that would do exactly as predicted. One, he'd attempt to take back what he thought was his. Two, upon finding that impossible he'd act violently. Three, after said impulsive action, he'd run. The police would be here shortly, but best not to waste their time chasing the criminal. They'd have to go pick up Anna Rucastle from her work anyways.

The dog barked again, and Sherlock had a fleeting association with the H.O.U.N.D incident all those years ago. He started running towards it. Rucastle was there, a rifle in his hands, so Sherlock called out. "Stop!"

"Bastard! You had no business getting involved!" The man shouted back, leveling the gun at Sherlock.

The detective was ready to dodge out of the way, except the unexpected happened. That dog, a mastiff, who looked like it'd been starved and neglected, jumped at the closest person. This happened to be Rucastle, and he fell forward with a shout. The rifle still went off harmlessly into the ground as the dog's teeth chomped down. Sherlock pulled his gun out and waited long seconds before taking the opportunity to shoot the poor dog. As much as he'd wanted the man to suffer, police sirens now echoed over the countryside. His work was done.

Eventually, he made his way back to Natasha and the others involved with the head detective of the Winchester police department. He answered questions, prompting responses from Violet, as well as Alice herself. By this time the cook, a Mrs Toller, found herself outside, and confirmed all of Sherlock's suspicions. She'd be taken in for questioning too, along with her husband and both of the Rucastles.

Sherlock was satisfied, it had been a truly fascinating case, despite the simplicity and short nature of it. He didn't even bother with a goodbye of the individuals involved and headed back towards the car.

Violet, on the other hand, caught Natasha quickly. She smiled slightly. "He do that often? Please thank him, for all of this and from the rest of us." She glanced over at Alice and Peter. "Thank you, very much."

Natasha returned her smile and winked. "I'll let him know."

* * *

Author's Note: This case was molded after _The Adventure of the Cooper Beeches_ story by Arthur Conan Doyle. Thanks for reading!


	31. Chapter 31

A week after what John would later dub Sherlock's _Copper Beeches_ adventure, found Natasha listening intently to the details of Sherlock's most recent case. He'd arrived an hour and a half before with his expensive suit covered in dirt and dried leaves, sporting a confident smile of triumph. She'd suggested they go out to dinner so they could celebrate, and he'd begun detailing the particulars while they bathed and dressed.

Natasha made a conscious effort to keep her hands to herself and her desire to engage in some physical activity in check. She knew under normal circumstances Sherlock wouldn't have minded given that he was no longer working, and he was well aware the effect it had on her when he regaled her with his deductions. He was good at stimulating her mentally as well as physically, and sometimes the two had a way of converging in the most fantastic way. _Still_ , she hadn't yet been cleared for such physical activity, and sound reasoning had won out in the end. She wasn't sure how long it would.

Dressed in a wrap dress of deep red, she slipped into her heels, fixed her make up in the mirror with quick swipes of her fingertips, and donned a pair of earrings. She ran her fingers through her glossy red waves and turned to face him, smiling. "Sounds like an interesting case," she spoke on her way over to fix the collar his black shirt. She was all flushed cheeks, dilated pupils and smoldering affection, drawing him in for a lingering kiss. "I'll trade you one of my stories over dinner," she added, allowing her eyes drift downwards. "And I like this shirt on you."

Sherlock blinked a couple times, giving her a rare smile as he tilted her chin back up to meet her eyes. "I deduced, you react slightly differently when I wear it." He stole another kiss, keeping it soft and tender. "You look beautiful, by the way."

Natasha smiled again. "You look pretty good yourself. Thank you." She leaned in for another kiss, clearly unable to stop herself, before taking a reluctant step back. "I just need to grab my coat and we can go."

Sherlock moved to retrieve his own coat, and soon they were both outside and walking. He took her hand as they moved through London. The air wasn't too cold, and it wasn't raining. Night had fallen over the city, and a comfortable silence had fallen between Sherlock and Natasha on the walk through the hustle and bustle of London's night-life.

Upon reaching Angelo's, Sherlock opened the door for Natasha and they were greeted enthusiastically by the owner himself. He escorted them to Sherlock's usual corner table by the window, promising to come back with a bottle of wine on the house.

Sherlock turned the menu over, glancing through the options quickly as he made up his mind. He then focused back on Natasha. "John was checking you up again before I dragged him out for the case. Good news this time?"

"Still not cleared for physical activity aside from walks and throwing daggers at your wall." Natasha looked up from her menu to meet his eyes. "It'll be a couple more weeks before I can start pushing myself a little further, apparently. Right about now I'm envying Steve and his super soldier serum," she admitted as she set the menu aside. "Worried?"

"Nope, just curious. I wasn't listening." Sherlock said. "You planning on staying until you're cleared then?"

"If you don't mind," she replied with a bit of a smile. "I do have a safe house here in London if you decide you'd like a break. I wouldn't mind moving."

"No, don't." He said quickly. "I actually…really enjoy it."

Natasha's smile grew, and she leaned forward, folding both her arms on top of the table. "You do? And here I thought I was the only one."

"Well you were wrong." Sherlock stated. Angelo came sweeping in again with the bottle of wine, pouring them each a glass and rambling something about a date, Sherlock didn't bother to pay attention. Their meal order was next and the man disappeared again after a moment.

Natasha sat back and picked up her glass of wine for a taste. "Maybe after I heal I can make my stays at your place a little longer," she suggested.

"If you want, I don't want you taking time away from your work. I know it's quite important, saving the world and all that." Sherlock said. He stared at the wine for a moment before tasting it again. "Not bad, anyways if you want, I wouldn't be opposed to it, cases included of course."

"I wouldn't be taking time away from work," she assured him. "I _will_ be taking time away from my matchmaking hobby, though. I still can't get Sam to fly out here and meet Molly." She flashed him a quick smile. "And I like the cases."

Sherlock smiled back. "I like you on my cases, and John does too, I think…" He trailed off for a moment of thought. "If you'd like to stay longer, you're more than welcome. We know the rules, and I'm not tired of you after these couple weeks. Let's do that."

Natasha leaned in for a soft kiss. "I promised I'd trade you one of my stories," she resumed their earlier conversation, thanking Angelo when he returned with their food. "Granted, not all jobs I take on are all interesting. My motivation is atonement more than anything else, and sometimes that translates into doing something that needs doing just because it needs doing." She paused to take an experimental bite of her food. "This particular job was a bit of a puzzler though, and I had to resume cover as a ballerina."

"Ballerina, puzzle… I'm interested, continue." Sherlock said thoughtfully as he picked up his fork. "On a side note, I haven't seen you dance ballet, I deduce you were quite good."

"To answer your side note, yes I was," she replied, stating a fact more than anything else. "I still am. It's become something of a stress reliever whenever I can squeeze it in and it helps me think." She paused and looked him over, holding off on launching into her story for the moment. "I could show you sometime if you're curious."

"I _am._ Perhaps next time you visit, if I'm free." Sherlock suggested casually. "I am going to ask you to dance tonight, but that's considerably less strenuous than ballet."

"I'd like that." Natasha took a few more delicate bites of her food before she picked up her glass of wine and spoke again. "So about the job."

Over the next half hour she covered the details of the job she'd been working on before Sherlock had called her in for the Red Room case. He'd interrupted a couple times during the course of it to spout theories, because it wasn't a proper story is Sherlock Holmes didn't dissect it. She'd gone undercover as a ballerina for a private showing of _Coppélia_ attended only by high ranking emirate officials in Dubai. She'd been tasked with retrieving a stolen item and given only a name. Tiny Dancer. Initially she'd been lead to believe it was a lethal substance, but as the job progressed she'd pieced together enough information to know it was in fact a girl. Trained and talented like herself in assassination, and they'd sold her to the highest bidder. The exchange was meant to go down during the performance, and she'd arrived as one of the official's dates.

Natasha had managed to smuggle her out despite the girl's suspicions and resistance, and found her placement in protective custody. The officials were eventually apprehended. Upon finishing her story amidst bites of food, she smiled and sat back in her seat. "I've been checking up on her periodically."

"Fascinating." Sherlock said. "You did well, I'm certain I would have done the same in that instance. I've been waiting for an opportunity to use dancing in the field, it just hasn't come up."

"Maybe next time your brother decides he wants us to take on a mission," she suggested with a warm smile that was fast becoming the new normal when she was around him. "I look forward to dancing with you anyway, on or off the field."

"Then we'll do that tonight. I have a place in mind." Sherlock stated, picking up the glass of wine again.

"Do I get a hint?" Natasha prodded. "Or is it meant to be a surprise?"

Sherlock simply smiled enigmatically, something he'd been doing more often as well. The rest of the meal went by quickly, and although they'd passed on dessert, they did finish the glasses of wine.

Eventually, after a pleasant goodbye to Angelo, Sherlock took Natasha's hand and they left in comfortable silence.

Hyde Park wasn't terribly far away, but they took a cab. The lights decorated the pathway, creating a setting that Sherlock hadn't exactly planned, but took advantage of it anyways. He didn't say anything, he never felt the need to. What he did feel, and he'd think about it later, was the simple fact of just _being_ with her. Where ever that was, he'd be with her.

Natasha traced gentle patterns with her thumb on the back of his hand while taking in their beautifully lighted surroundings. Few people walked the path with them. Couples huddling together in quiet conversation. Families herding their children closer with fond smiles. Her head turned briefly in his direction, not to seek his attention or to engage him in conversation, but to silently convey her feelings. Raising his hand to her lips, she pressed her lips against it in a soft kiss.

Sherlock retreated from his head to his current surroundings, turning to look at her. In his eyes, she was beautiful in mind, spirit, and body. She was curiosity and mystery, and a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. And she loved him. How did that happen? How did they get from him bleeding on her doorstep to declarations of love and commitment. He didn't know, but at this moment in time caring felt like the biggest advantage he could ever have. So, he smiled softly, guiding them just off the path, and asked. "Natasha, would you dance with me?"

"Always." Natasha stood in front of him, close as she could manage with her free hand on his chest. She tipped her head back, bright green eyes meeting blue. She smiled. "This is pretty romantic," she teased.

"While I was conducting my liver experiment, I researched good walking spots for dates in London, this was a prime choice." Sherlock said professionally, stating a fact if anything. He pulled his phone out and brought up some calm instrumental violin music. After putting it back in his pocket, he wrapped his arms around her to dance.

Natasha slid her arms around his neck, briefly running her fingers through his curls. "Well I agree, it's a very good choice." She studied his features curiously before breaking out in another smile. "I love you," she said earnestly.

"Do you?" Sherlock said, a smirk briefly crossing his face as he met her eyes. "I do know that, you've told me before."

"Should I stop, then?" Natasha teased. "Save it just for special occasions and life threatening circumstances?"

"No, no." Sherlock said quickly. "I don't mind, it's not new information, it's not a bad thing to hear it again. I love you too."

Natasha chuckled quietly and moved in a little closer. "Good," she replied. "Because after what happened, I don't plan on leaving anything else unsaid."

"And neither will I." Sherlock agreed, mindless of the place and focused solely on her. "Much to my annoyance, and as John likes to remind me, we're not invincible."

"Unfortunately," Natasha agreed. "All the more reason to make most of the time we have, right?"

"Correct." Sherlock said, adjusting his arms around her he spun them around and then dipped her low. Catching her eyes once more, he leaned in and kissed her softly.

Natasha's eyes fluttered closed and one of her hands came to rest gently against his cheek, thumb moving slowly over his cheekbone. Heedless of the people around them and the curious glances shot their way, she relaxed in his arms with no intention of pulling away.

Sherlock kissed her gently, holding her still healing body. He supported her, his arms encasing her, as if he didn't want to let her go. He didn't, but that thought was illogical. After a prolonged moment, he broke the kiss, but didn't prop her up yet. " _I love you_." He said, in Russian.

" _I love you too,_ " she answered softly. " _And I think we have an audience_ ," she added with a smile she reserved strictly for him.

" _People will talk._ " Sherlock said, recommitting the smile to memory as he put her back on her feet. " _Let them. I just hope we don't make the gossip columns._ "

" _Boffin Holmes Dates Soviet Spy_?" Natasha suggested as a headline. " _Genius Detective in Bed with Russian Avenger_?" She took his hand and twined their fingers together so they could resume their walk. "I hate reporters."

"I do as well." Sherlock agreed, giving a look to a too curious couple that suggested they forget about it. He turned his attention back to the walk. "Useful, necessary, and easy to manipulate, but I dislike them. I deal with them frequently."

"I try not to deal with them at all," Natasha admitted. "I suppose that's not surprising. Spies and media don't exactly go hand in hand," she added with a short laugh. "Steve and Tony are usually the ones in charge of handling the press."

"Understandably so, the press probably likes them more anyways." Sherlock said plainly. "Charismatic icons or something like that."

"Charismatic icons," she agreed. "Tony loves it but Steve hates it," she continued. "Still, it's either them or the rest of us. Bruce doesn't handle the pressure well. Clint makes a spectacle of himself every time he opens his mouth and I've given reporters bloody noses more than once." She glanced at him. "Though, in my defense, they were asking less than appropriate questions. I like to think I responded appropriately."

"I would have expected nothing less." Sherlock said. "My experience could be worse, I suppose. We've had our ups and downs. The ear hat for one."

"I like the hat," Natasha admitted with a bit of an amused smile. "But you know that already."

"Yes, I did. Even if I did not, balance of probability suggests it. You like most if not all things on me."

Natasha shrugged a shoulder, still sporting the same smile. "You're an attractive man by the majority of people's standards," she said matter of factly. "Most things suit you." She paused to look at him. "It's not what interests me, though. I find who you _are_ attractive, regardless of outward appearances."

"The exact same could be said from me about you. I suppose I could elaborate if prompted, but the evidence is there."

"I know," Natasha assured him and there was just a hint of vulnerability in her tone. "It's a good thing too," she joked in hopes of covering it. "I think I might have to say goodbye to bikinis for good this time."

"If you wish, I think I understand." Sherlock said after a moment. "Though in my eyes it's simple proof that you are, in fact, strong enough to be alive."

Natasha smiled again and reached for his scarf, gently pull him down for a quick kiss while they walked. "I'm never letting you go. I hope you know that."

"The evidence suggests it." Sherlock quipped, smiling down at her.

"Good," Natasha replied, once again lapsing into comfortable silence with Sherlock's hand in hers, a smile on her lips and his honest words in her head.


	32. Chapter 32

One month after the incident in Russia, Sherlock and Natasha were very well immersed in their routine. Sherlock would work cases, Natasha would accompany him, along with John. It usually ended in the three, or five when Mary and Josina could make it, going out for dinner.

Not only cases, but the domestic life became a bit of a routine as well. Morning tea, showers, frozen dinners for two, board games, television, evenings with the violin, walks, carefully curled up in bed together...the list went on.

One of Sherlock's less pleasant habits, brought on by his need to _do_ something, was experimenting in the kitchen. Today's experiment was not for a specific case and had fully covered half of the counter as well as the whole table. Dozens of petri dishes were scattered, each with a different slice of a human internal organ (joyfully donated by Molly Hooper's current completed collection of autospies).

Sherlock was in his dressing gown and casual dress clothes, safety goggles on, and currently pipetting varying number of drops of different chemicals on to the samples. His face was the picture of contemplation, as he mentally recorded the visual reactions of the tissue. He then was carefully selecting pieces to examine under the microscope.

Natasha was sitting in his grey leather chair wearing an off the shoulder sweater in the softest cashmere, paired with fitted black pants. Her laptop sat on her crisscrossed legs. John Watson had continued checking up on her regularly and she'd been healing steadily under his care. Earlier that day, he'd cleared her for physical activity. Natasha had perked up at the news. She'd asked about training, to which he'd agreed as far as no acrobatics or heavy lifting were involved. She'd then asked about sex, to which he'd issued the same warning with a laugh.

Once he'd left, she'd settled in to watch Sherlock move around his kitchen while she caught up with her teammates back home. Clint had taken time off from the Avengers altogether to help Laura with the kids, but the rest were active as ever. There was always work to be done. Natasha missed it, but she was also pragmatic and patient. No one would benefit from her going back to the field operating at anything less than 100%.

Closing her laptop and setting it aside, she padded quietly into the kitchen to stealthily eye Sherlock's experiments up close under the pretense of finding herself a glass of water. Curiosity, she was sure, would one day get the better of her. "Can I get you anything?"

"Hmmm?" Sherlock replied, fully engaged in the current piece of kidney he was slicing through with a scalpel. It was only after he grabbed it with the forceps that he focused his attention on her. "What? Oh, nothing. Don't touch anything."

"Such a brave man giving me orders," she quipped, making sure she didn't touch or disturb anything while she searched for an uncontaminated glass for her water. "What can I touch? I just need a glass for water."

"The ones in the cupboard should all be clean." Sherlock said, pointing with said piece of kidney as he sat down by the microscope. "What did John say? I wasn't listening."

"Healing steadily and cleared for physical activity as long as there's no heavy lifting and no acrobatics," Natasha recited. "I think I'll fly back to New York next week to check up on everyone in person." She closed the fridge once she'd poured herself a glass of water and took a sip.

"One more week of domestic bliss." Sherlock quipped, turning his attention to the microscope as he spoke. "Anyways, that's a good thing."

"It is. I miss working," she agreed, coming a little closer to peek at the remaining petri dishes. "Not that I haven't enjoyed the domestic bliss," she added. "Specimens in the kitchen and all. Should I even ask what you're working on now?"

"An experiment." Sherlock provided as an answer, as if it should have been completely obvious. He sighed and leaned away from the microscope to point. "I'm observing and cataloging the effects of varying amounts of basic household chemicals on internal organs. I borrowed your hairspray, by the way." He flashed a smile and turned back to the microscope.

"You say you borrowed, I say you stole," Natasha teased good-humouredly. "Ever tried the same with different types of poisons?" She asked on her way back to his chair, sensing her presence was less than welcome in the kitchen at the moment. She didn't mind. "I could find you an assortment of them if not."

"Yep, that was my big project last year. However, I'd be interested in replicating it with a new assortment of rarer poisons." Sherlock said, waving his hand randomly as she walked away. "I'm almost to a stopping point."

"Rarer poisons I can do," she assured him. "Next time I come visit," she promised, once again settling her computer on her lap and opening it.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, and then went back to focus on finishing up his current step in his experiment. The kidney behaved as expected, and after long minutes mentally cataloging it in his mind, he stood up and started stacking his petri dishes. He glanced over at her and cleared his throat. "Would you...like to experiment?"

Natasha smiled. "With basic household chemicals and internal organs? I don't think you want me anywhere near that experiment. It's not my strong suit."

"No...not that sort of experiment." Sherlock said over his shoulder after a moment. "Although, it's fine sometime if you'd like to learn. I've got some excellent histological slides that can be viewed under the microscope. But moving on, I meant another sort."

Natasha finally looked up from the screen of her laptop with furrowed brows to decipher his meaning, which took only a second. "Oh." She smiled again and closed her laptop. "I would, actually. Histological slides sound interesting too... for later."

"Tomorrow perhaps…" He replied, moving to stand at the edge of the kitchen once all his plates were stacked in the fridge for later. "You've been cleared for physical activity, but I think we should test the theory."

"I couldn't agree more." Leaving her computer on his chair, she stood up and walked over to join him in the kitchen. "Before you called me in for the Black Widow case I hadn't seen you in… what? Month and a half? That's two and a half months with no _experiments_..." She snaked her hands beneath his dressing gown to wrap her arms around his waist. "And watching you work always has an effect, as you know. Consider me eager."

"We're getting quite good are we not? After a year and a half."

"Yes we are." Natasha slipped one hand underneath his shirt and traced her fingertips over warm skin. "No acrobatics this time, though," she joked. "Is that okay?"

Sherlock huffed, placing a kiss on her forehead. "Just fine. I'd prefer to keep it slow anyways. For multiple reasons, both practical and not."

Natasha's smile grew. "Then it's going to have to be the bed for us this time." She pulled away to grab his hand, throwing her next tease over her shoulder. "No specimens in the bedroom, I assume?"

"No." Sherlock said as he followed eagerly. "I broke that habit about a year and a half ago."

This time it was Natasha's turn to chuckle. "Then I hope breaking the habit has been worth it."

He shut the bedroom door behind them, giving her the smile he reserved for her alone. "It has been, very rewarding."

"If up to me, it will continue to be." Natasha steered him gently towards the bed and sat him down to remedy the height difference that would put more of a strain on him than it would on her. Briefly she considered removing her sweater, but decided against it out of uncharacteristic self consciousness and climbed onto his lap. "I should thank you."

"For what?" Sherlock asked, letting his hands gently move up and down the cashmere.

"Letting me stay here without coddling me," she said. "Letting me throw daggers at your wall. Being gentle with me when I've encroached on your space." She took his face in her hands and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "For rescuing me in the first place."

"A good reason for gratitude. Now it's my turn." Sherlock smiled against her, slipping one hand under her jumper and running up her back. "For saving my life, many times. For putting up with my oddities. For _seeing_ me." He paused just a moment. "I love you."

"I love you too." Natasha moved her hands to rid him of his dressing gown and dipped her head to pepper gentle kisses over his jaw and down his neck. "All of you and your oddities. _I love you_ ," she added the last in Russian.

Sherlock sucked in a ragged breath as her lips found sensitive skin. "You're an amazingly complicated woman." He said softly as his eyes closed. "Bit of a puzzle, which I appreciate."

Natasha smiled against his neck. "That's good to hear," she said quietly. "I don't think I could be simple if I tried." She moved her hands to the hem of his shirt and slowly pushed it upwards before once again catching his lips in a heated kiss. "You're amazingly complicated yourself. Never easy to read... I like that."

"Quite a lot of compliments, we should do this more often." Sherlock commented, giving her a thoughtful look. His hands stilled on her hips. "May I take your jumper off?"

"Yeah," Natasha answered after a hesitant pause, followed by a faint smile. "Yeah, go ahead." She met his eyes and sat back a little to make iteasier.

Keeping eye contact, Sherlock slipped his hands under the soft fabric and gently eased it up and over her head. He dropped it next to the bed, then put his arms around her and gently turned them both over so she was laying on her back in the middle of the bed. He shifted down so he could place soft kisses over and around the new scars that now graced her abdomen.

Natasha closed her eyes and exhaled a shaky breath, making no effort to hide the emotion brought on by the gesture. She'd been feeling incredibly vulnerable since waking up at the hospital a month before, but right then she didn't just feel vulnerable. She felt exposed.

Opening her eyes, she reached down to run her fingers through his hair. "I've said it already," she said quietly. "But I love you."

"You are beautiful...and strong...indomitable….determined…amazing..." Sherlock kissed his way back up to her neck. He eventually pulled back to meet her eyes, beautiful and green and vulnerable. He smiled. "It's repetitive, but I believe it's a good thing to practice saying…. I love you very much."

Her emotions were threatening to overwhelm her by the second but she swallowed hard and held his gaze regardless. "Very much," she breathed raggedly. "Very, very much." Moving her hands from his curls to cup his face, she drew him down for a fervent kiss.

It being the first time they'd shown the intimate physical evidence for the love they'd recently verbally confessed, they took their time. Carefully exploring each other again, gently ensuring wounds were not injured, and passionately demonstrating everything spoken and unspoken. Eventually they stilled, breathing hard and holding each other close. Sherlock placed a kiss to her shoulder, then her cheek, and then her lips. Finally relaxing back against the pillows with a deep breath.

Natasha tucked herself close to his side, one arm draped over his chest and her face hidden against the crook of his neck. Her lips pressed against it in a soft kiss and she smiled. "Absolutely worth the wait."

"Good to hear." Sherlock said, his voice still low and soft. He breathed in deep, letting his fingers smooth over her warm skin. "More than satisfactory. I'd say that was certainly top ten."

"Mm," she hummed her agreement. "My top ten too," she said softly. "Which is saying something because we've had a lot of good ones."

"You are correct." He exhaled a laugh, lapsing into a comfortable silence for a few moments of thought. "Are you alright?" He asked, the question having more weight than a simple curiosity would suggest.

"I am now," she told him honestly. "I've just been feeling a little... raw, emotionally speaking, this last month. I didn't anticipate having to go back to the Red Room or having you see the place first hand." She kissed his neck again, very softly. "But I'm alright now."

He didn't reply right away, emotions weren't his area, but it seemed they didn't need to be. He simply was himself and that was enough. So he tucked her just a bit closer and breathed her in. "I'll be here for you, whatever happens."

"I know." Her voice was soft. "You've got my back."

"And you've got mine." Sherlock replied, letting his eyes close and his entire body relax.

Natasha slept soundly and without nightmares that night, and allowed Sherlock to show her the promised histological slides late morning the next day. He lectured her in his usual fast paced professional tone, and she listened attentively while sipping her cup of tea. She wasn't sure how long it'd be before she could return to London after she left at the end of the week, so she made it a point to take as much advantage as she could of the time she had left with him. Later in the day he received a call from Lestrade asking for his input on a case, and the so it went for the rest of the week. In between, when he was neither engaged with work or experiments of the scientific variety, she pulled him with her into the bedroom for a physical demonstration of the feelings they spoke of quietly and privately at other times.

Saturday night found Sherlock caseless and Natasha packing for a later flight. He travelled with her to the airport, and after one last ' _I love you'_ whispered between gentle but fervent kisses, she slipped out of the car and boarded her plane with a faint smile.


	33. Chapter 33

It only took three weeks this time.

Sherlock Holmes had nothing in his inbox, there wasn't a case in sight. And it had been like that for the better part of a week. There'd been visits with Molly and experiments with specimens in the kitchen. But it wasn't enough. John and Mary had been too busy with flu season at the clinic to notice. Sherlock had dodged Mycroft completely. Natasha was out of the country. There was no one around to hold him back.

Sherlock struggled with his drug addiction, and some days were worse than others. He spent time hiding what he did and keep it as minimal as possible to avoid arousing suspicion. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all, if anyone could deceive the people who cared, it was him.

Danger night started early that day and Sherlock slipped out of his house, pulling the hoodie over his head and stepping into the damp of the London afternoon. He knew right where to go.

Hours later found him high as a kite and riding it out on a dirty mattress in the middle of London's ghetto. His hoodie was pulled up, his phone was on silent in his pocket, and his eyes were pinched closed as the drug induced hallucination took him places he'd never gone before.

Natasha arrived at London's Heathrow Airport later that same evening, exhausted from her flight and battered from her latest mission. Her injuries weren't serious or extensive, but she'd put her body through a lot in recent months and it needed the rest.

She picked up a steaming cup of coffee to keep herself going in the meantime, and climbed into nearest cab.

The drive to Baker Street was normally around a half-hour long, but the little traffic shortened it to twenty minutes. Natasha didn't bother texting. Sherlock would either be on a case or running experiments, by her calculations, and she didn't want to disturb either activity prematurely. They'd have plenty of time once he was free.

She paid the cabbie and unloaded her bag when they reached the proper door, sparing a brief glance for the knocker as she stepped inside. Seconds later, she reached the familiar living room. She dropped her bag just inside the door but didn't bother removing her coat.

"Mycroft," she greeted evenly.

"Natasha." Mycroft didn't look up from where he was searching through Sherlock's correspondence, strewn over his desk. "My brother's been avoiding me."

"Doesn't he always?" Natasha stepped further into the room and stopped in the middle, turning on the spot. "What is it about this time that concerns you?"

"Who says I'm concerned?"

"You do." Natasha settled bright green eyes on him. "You're here on your own and you're going through his things. Usually you'd rely on someone else to do your snooping, but not this time. Why? What's going on?"

"I don't know," Mycroft admitted. "But then, I never know with my brother, do I?" He straightened his spine and grasped the handle of his umbrella with both of his gloved hands, meeting her gaze. "He hasn't had a case this week. I've been keeping tabs."

Natasha stole a peek into the kitchen, brow creased in concern. "St. Bart's?"

"I've already checked. He's not there."

"CCTV footage?"

Mycroft exhaled. "Sherlock knows how to avoid being seen if he so desires," he said tiredly. "I checked, but there was nothing out of the ordinary."

"Have you checked with John?"

Mycroft looked almost hesitant. "He usually contacts me if there's anything to be concerned with."

"Right." Natasha fished her phone out of her coat pocket and turned for the door, jabbing at the screen with her fingers. "I'll find him and text you."

"My personal number—"

"Got it," Natasha called on her way down the stairs.

Mycroft wasn't far behind, but he didn't speak until they reached the bottom step. "Take my car. I've already got another on the way."

Natasha shot him a brief look before returning her eyes to the screen of her phone. "So you can keep track of where I go while you wait?"

"Contrary to popular opinion, I don't keep track of the lot of you because I personally enjoy it."

"I know," she answered distractedly, finally reaching for the door handle of Mycroft's sleek black Jaguar. "You worry. I'll find him, but I'm not taking you with me." She climbed inside. "Thanks for the car."

Once the door was closed, Natasha allowed herself a deep breath and sent Sherlock a text. _I'm in London. Where are you? Mycroft's worried. -Nat_

She dropped the phone on her lap and urged the driver forward, eager to do something other than sit around and wait. Sherlock didn't necessarily have to be in trouble, did he? Mycroft was overprotective. He could be overreacting, or simply giving way to that same overprotective streak.

Or Sherlock could've taken a case and Mycroft could've just missed it. Sherlock had more than enough practice dodging his older brother, didn't he?

Natasha rubbed her forehead and closed her eyes. "Please just be okay," she whispered under her breath.

* * *

By the time Sherlock slipped the needle back into his vein for the next dose, he stole a glance at the phone he'd been otherwise ignoring. The most recent message was from Natasha. His jaw clenched.

This little 'ghastly' habit had been something he'd kept as far away from her as he could in the year and a half of interaction. He didn't use while she was staying with him, only to alleviate boredom when he was alone. He'd assumed she'd be gone at least another week.

Perfectly convinced that he was in his right mind to send a text that made sense, he replied to her text and shoved the phone back in his pocket next to the infamous list.

 _My always worriess.. Im fine. Be home late. -SH_

That should take care of it. She'd listen to him because she trusted him. Loved him too. That hadn't escaped him. But Sherlock Holmes was an addict and this was something he needed. So curling back up again, he let his mind drift to the hallucination he'd devised.

* * *

Natasha picked up her phone when it vibrated on her lap and narrowed her eyes at the text lighting up the screen. Several possibilities flitted through her head, but it didn't take her long to decide on a course of action. She had access to JARVIS from her phone. Tracking him down would be easy and she was still armed in case there was trouble.

She arrived at a doss house smack in the middle of a London ghetto a few minutes later and asked Mycroft's driver to drop her off a block away. Three people stood in a cluster underneath a street lamp, but the everywhere else seemed otherwise deserted. She pocketed her phone and retrieved one of her guns from underneath her coat anyway.

The hallways were dark inside the 'house'. Natasha closed the rickety wooden door behind her and waited for her eyes to adjust, listening intently. There were quiet murmurs and the sound of shuffling feet, but not much else.

A dark figure ambled towards her in the darkness. "You can't be here," slurred a male voice.

"Is that so?" Natasha raised her gun and found the man's forehead with the tip in the darkness. "How about now?"

"Wha..." He swallowed audibly. "There's no need for that. What d'you want?"

"I'm looking for someone. Dark curly hair. Blue eyes. Tall, round 1.83 meters," she listed smoothly. "Ringing any bells?"

He swallowed again and she heard more than saw him shuffle in place. "I don't—"

Natasha lowered her gun, only to knee him in the groin and jab an elbow into his face. The man let out a sharp cry and staggered backwards until he fell against what could only be a wall, sliding down it's grimy paint-flecked surface. "Why'd you do that?"

"I'm looking for someone," she repeated. "Does my description ring any bells?"

"Check upstairs," he blithered. "That hurt, you know! I think I'm bleedin'!"

"Should've answered my question the first time." Natasha found the stairs and climbed them to the second floor without putting her gun away.

There were several occupied mattresses scattered across the dirty floor, and streaks of dim light leaking through a boarded up window. She walked forward slowly in her confusion. It wasn't a feeling she liked or was familiar with, and it made her uneasy. She tightened her grip on the cool metal of her gun.

Her heels eventually clicked to a stop beside one of the mattresses. She couldn't see the man's face because it was hidden from view by a hoodie, but his build was similar to Sherlock's. Her lips parted hesitantly, green eyes darting round the room one last time before they settled on the man in front of her.

She stepped forward. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" He turned his head and moved the hood away from his face. His words were slightly slurred, eyes trying to focus on the woman standing over him. "No, no, you're…not supposed to be here."

"I thought you might've been in trouble. Where else was I supposed to be?" She shoved her gun back into place underneath her coat and lowered herself onto the mattress, crawling over to kneel beside him. Her features were partially cast in shadow, but her worry was evident in her eyes and voice. She snatched his face in between her hands. "What happened? What is this?"

"This is…um," he struggled to find any explanation for his current location that made sense. His brow furrowed just a bit, his eyes dilated and bloodshot in the dim light. "This is…research. I don't know." He paused, deciding that wasn't going to be believable. He sniffed. "This is me."

"This is you..." Natasha's breath hitched in her throat. " _Lyubimiy..._ " She dragged him into her arms, speaking soothingly close to his ear. Her fingers curled into his dirty clothes. "Come home with me," she said. "Come home with me and we'll get you cleaned up. Get this sorted and make sure you're okay."

Sherlock breathed in and out. He couldn't quite understand the feeling he was experiencing at the moment, but it was akin to guilt. He didn't like it. He was quiet a couple moments, forcing the hallucination back down and bringing himself to reality. "Okay." His voice was soft. "I'll go home."

"Do we need to stop by the hospital, or do we need to call John?" She was having a hard time letting him go, but logic was telling her that she needed to make sure he was physically okay first. Everything else they could deal with later. She pulled back to meet his eyes, gently raking her fingers through his hair when she felt herself on the verge of spilling over in a jumble of complicated emotions. "Mycroft let me borrow his car. It should be just a block away."

Sherlock swore under his breath in Russian, turning his head to break eye contact. "No hospital." He said next. "I'm fine, didn't…OD. Just home. John…maybe. But he's going to shout."

"Can't blame him if he does." Natasha let him go completely so he could get his feet under him, and did the same herself. "If you'd OD'd—" Her jaw clenched and she averted her eyes, swallowing hard and offering her hand instead. "I'll call him when we're in the car."

"I'mmm in trouble." Sherlock slurred, but his hand slipped into hers as he righted himself. He was still very high, and the room was coming apart at the seams. So his hand gripped hers tighter. He could rely on her to help him, she loved him after all. Maybe this was the thing that was going to send her away. It's what he expected anyways.

"Big trouble. We'll talk in the car." Natasha steered him out of the building and into the cool night air, careful to steady him when he lost his balance. Her hands were gentle but firm, as if they could anchor him to reality through touch alone. She waited until they'd settled into the back of Mycroft's car to use her words, guiding Sherlock to rest his head on her lap.

Once they settled into the back of Mycroft's car, she guided Sherlock to rest his head on her lap and resumed running her fingers through his hair. "I've got you," she told him quietly once the car started moving, "and I love you, okay? Whatever this is, I just want to understand." She paused. "I just need to make sure you're really okay first, and even if he does shout, John's your best friend and he will always have your best interests at heart. Do you trust me?"

"Yeah." Sherlock exhaled the affirmation. He was quiet for another moment, his fingers flexing in the fabric of her coat. The words that came next were quieter, almost like a confession, for his guilt was growing. "Love you."

Natasha massaged his scalp with her fingertips, but the worry never left her features. "I know," she said softly.

She fished her phone out of her coat pocket with her free hand and typed a text one-handed for John. _Sherlock's not okay. Meet us at 221B. We're on our way. -Nat_ After hitting send, she typed another for Mycroft. _Sherlock found. Texted John. Details tomorrow._

His reply was swift. _Ask for a list. -M_

Having taken care of the more pressing texts first, she put her phone away and turned her attention back to Sherlock. Her fingers never stopped carding through his hair, gentle and slow. "Still with me?"

"Mm here." Sherlock said quietly, though his eyes were closed and his body was relatively relaxed. "You texted Jo'n…and My. Mycroft wants a list. It's in my pocket. And I'm sorry…was bored."

 _I'll be there in ten. -JW_

John's reply vibrated in Natasha's pocket and she glimpsed it briefly before stealing a glance out the tinted windows of the darkened car.

"Bored," she repeated quietly. "And what happens if one of these days you need more of _this_ to stave the boredom, and you overdo it? What if I lose you? I want you to be okay, more than anything, but I can't lose you. I _won't_ lose you."

"Won't overdo it. I'mm a graduate chemist." Sherlock argued lamely. His eyes opened and he turned his head. "You won't lose me, I promise. Least not to this. It was a bad day."

Natasha stared into his eyes for a long moment. "We'll talk it over when you're sober," she said at length, and there was no anger or judgement in her tone, only concern, and underneath that concern, fear. "I was planning on staying with you for a while longer this time anyway, if you didn't mind. We'll have time."

"Okay." Sherlock murmured his response and closed his eyes again. The rest of the drive was spent in silence. Just fingers through his hair and the hum of the quiet engine, it nearly lulled him to sleep. Save for the growing guilt and trepidation at the fallout from being caught. That feeling was distracting though, he didn't want to let it take over. Then again, when did his feelings ever truly listen to him.


	34. Chapter 34

John Watson just stepping out of a cab as Mycroft's car pulled up alongside 221B Baker Street. He squared his shoulders and stepped to open the door for Natasha and Sherlock. One peek at the detective and he loosed a curse under his breath. "Alright." He said stiffly, stepping back so they could get out of the car. "Let's get you both upstairs. I think there's a story here and I'm just dying to hear it."

Natasha helped Sherlock out of the car and dipped her hand into his pocket to retrieve 'the list'. Keeping her arm round his waist, she scanned the contents. "Here," she said, tightly, when she was through, handing it to John as they stepped inside. "Mycroft asked for it before, but you'll probably get more use out of it now."

John swore again as he scanned the list and then shoved it in his pocket for the inevitable conversation with Mycroft Holmes. By the time they'd reached the top of the stairs, he'd stepped into the kitchen to get some water. "We just have to watch him at this point, make sure he doesn't relapse or have a delayed reaction. Sherlock, sit."

Sherlock did as instructed with Natasha's help, lowering himself into his chair. He made no protest when John began a less than gentle examination with a penlight, stethoscope, and fingers. Pupils, pulse, lungs. John kept talking. "Water and food. And no drugs, got that? No more, you can't keep doing this." His stormy blue eyes flitted to Sherlock's face.

"Got it." The detective said quietly.

Natasha stood beside Sherlock's chair with her arms folded over her chest, looking as exhausted as she felt. She'd draped her trench coat over the couch to deal with later, and the clothes underneath were elegant but practical. A crimson v-neck sweater over dark jeans and knee-high boots.

Her brows pulled together. "Thanks," she said. "I'll take care of him, I just wasn't sure what else to do when I found him."

"You did the right thing." John assured her, straightening up but keeping his fingers on Sherlock's wrist to take his pulse again. "If he had OD'd," he gave Sherlock a pointed look, "well we're not doing that again. Stash?"

"Hidden." Sherlock said without meeting his eyes.

"Obviously. Natasha's going to find it and pour every ounce of it down the drain." John pulled his hand back and crossed his arms. His eyes flitted to Natasha. "Can you?"

"Yeah, leave it to me," she said by way of confirmation. "I already texted Mycroft to let him know I'd found Sherlock, but I'm assuming he'll want to confirm with you sometime tomorrow."

"Always a fun conversation." John quipped as he dropped a cool water bottle into Sherlock's lap. He glanced back up at Natasha and tried a little smile. "It's good to see you though, despite the circumstances."

Natasha softened a fraction and returned his smile. "It's good to see you too," she said honestly, unfolding her arms to run her fingers through Sherlock's hair. "You're coming over tomorrow?"

"Yeah, tomorrow's my day off." John said. "I'll be over as soon as I can. You'll phone me if there's any change or any concern?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock tried again, having slouched in the chair further upon Natasha's fingers in his hair. "I calcula-"

"Shut up, Sherlock." John said, slipping from soft to cross in the blink of an eye. "Like I said...Anything at all, just let me know."

"I will, don't worry," Natasha promised. "We'll be fine." Her eyes skittered back to Sherlock. "Or as fine as we can be, considering. We do still need to talk. Go home and I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes ma'am. See you in the morning." John tried another smile as headed back for the door.

Once John was gone, Sherlock slouched a bit more, kicking off his trainers as he curled sideways in the chair. He crossed his arms over his abdomen. "At least he didn't shout." He said.

"Well there's always tomorrow." Natasha removed her hand from Sherlock's hair to unzip her boots, silently closing her eyes in relief once her feet were free. She set them down next to John's chair and took a seat. "How long?" Her expression was concerned, but not pushy. "How long have you been struggling with this? And why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you were busy this time, saving the world or whatever it is that you do." Sherlock said, his voice still slightly slurred. "And I've always struggled with this. Over two decades, if you need a timeline. Mycroft would have the exact date."

Natasha clasped her hands on her lap. "So is this going to happen every time I'm busy and you're bored? Until, you know, one day you OD before any one of us can reach you."

"Not _every_ time. Just… _some_ times." Pause. "And I won't OD, I promise. That's what the list's for."

"I don't think you can realistically promise not to OD," she said. "And for the record, I didn't exactly enjoy thinking you might be hurt or in trouble when I was searching for you tonight. Especially when I didn't know where you were, and no one else did either."

"I wouldn't expect you to enjoy that, obviously not. But isn't that where you're supposed to trust me?"

"You and I both know that's an unfair question." Natasha lifted her hands to scrub the exhaustion off her face. "You kept this from me on purpose. You didn't trust me, and you should've." She dropped her hands to her lap and met his eyes again. "I want to understand—I do, I promise, but how can I if you do't tell me what's going on?"

"I am a drug user.… _addict_." Sherlock said, enunciating each word. "That's what's going on, that's what always has been going on. I use to alleviate boredom and enhance my thought process."

Natasha didn't understand why he was being so short with her when she was only trying to understand, but she was nothing if not patient. She lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together. "Thank you for finally trusting me with that bit of information," she said. "You should've trusted me with it sooner. I love you. When I say that, I mean it, and I'm not going to leave you for this. That's not who I am and that's not how I do things. All I want is for you to be okay. Is that wrong? Do I have to start pretending now that I don't care?"

Sherlock averted his eyes, shifting a bit to curl up on himself. He was quiet for a moment before he spoke. "No…I don't know." Pause. "I'm sorry. I just…don't know what else to do."

"Well let's start with this..." Natasha rose from John's chair and crouched in front of Sherlock's, green eyes finding his blue ones. "You don't keep this from me anymore, okay? We're supposed to have each other's backs, and this doesn't change that." Reaching for one of his hands, she brought it to her lips for a kiss. "There is no judgement on my end. I know it's not the same... but I know what it's like to struggle for every shred of sanity you can get your hands on. I want to help. Will you let me?"

Sherlock's long fingers flexed in hers and he drew a deep breath in as he tried to find sense in his drug-addled brain. There'd been a good reason he hadn't told her, afraid that it would be a cause for her inevitable departure. Besides, he'd been doing well for the most part. Until now, of course. He'd have to be better next time, because he was an addict, there was always going to be a next time. Breaking away from this…well that had to be impossible. His eyes were a bit watery and bloodshot, but he made eye contact again. "I'll…try. I can't promise anything else."

"All I'm asking is that you try," she promised. "You _can_ do this. You are brilliant and determined... and I'll be with you every step of the way, okay?" She kissed his hand one more time and held it as she rose to her feet. She was starting to feel her injuries again and she needed her meds, but she'd get to those later. First things first. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

"You're hurt." Sherlock finally deduced, frowning just a bit upon that revelation. He scooted to sit up slightly, but didn't move to stand up. "Whe-…what happened?"

"Just my humanity catching up to me. Every time I go back in the field there are more people with powers itching to get their hands on me. I took a hit two days ago." Natasha probed her ribs with her free hand and winced. "It's really not as bad as it feels, it just feels awful. I've got painkillers in my bag, but I want to get you in the shower first."

"I know how to shower myself, you are free to take your medication. Should have called John in for you, not me." Sherlock said, his brow pinching as he extracted himself from the chair and stood up. Now towering over her short frame, he studied her as closely as he could. "There's still no way to acquire more superpowers than you already have?"

"Not without serious risk. If there ever is, you'll be the first I'll tell." Natasha smiled faintly and tugged on his hand, leading him towards the bathroom. "And for the record, I know you know how to shower yourself, but you weren't really steady on your feet before." Her eyes swept over him in quick assessment now. "Feeling steadier now?"

"Not really." Sherlock said, refraining from going into detail about his experiences with the high and crash. He plodded along with her down the hall and into the bathroom. "But I'll be fine, no slipping and breaking my neck in the shower or any illogical death like that."

"Are you saying you don't want me in the shower with you? Because I can wait for my turn." Natasha let go of his hand to sweep the shower curtain aside and turn the shower on. "I do still have to find your stash."

"You won't find it." Sherlock said, but moved right on. "And I didn't say I didn't want you with me. I just want to make sure you're okay."

Natasha turned towards him, having softened completely with his words. "I will be, I just want you close." She stepped towards him and pressed a hand just over his heart. "I'll take my meds before I hop in the shower with you, okay? Be right back."

Sherlock didn't lean in to kiss her as he might have another time. He didn't deserve that comfort at the moment. He squeezed her hand gently and then stepped away to pull his dirty clothes off. "You better. You flew all the way to London for a shower, after all. This extra stress wasn't part of the deal."

"I don't care about extra stress," she said firmly. "I flew over because I love you and I want you. All of you. _That_ is the deal. _That_ is how this works, stress or no stress." Her eyes stubbornly locked with his. " _That's_ what I signed up for. You're stuck with me no matter what happens, is that clear?"

Sherlock paused halfway out of his hoodie. "Transparently clear." He replied and finished pulling the dark garment off his body. "You, _Natalia,_ are an exceptional woman."

"It's why you love me." Natasha pulled him down for a kiss, but stopped short of making contact to let him decide whether or not it was acceptable. "And you're pretty remarkable too."

His expression turned a bit sad, disbelieving even. He shifted to press a kiss to her forehead and straightened up. He spoke as he turned his back to take off his t-shirt. "You've got one thing right at least."

Natasha's shoulders sagged a little when he couldn't see. "I've got both of those right," she said. "You are a remarkable man. Brilliant and passionate and loyal. You're just not perfect. No one is." She hesitated on the spot, but decided her meds could wait until later. She pulled her sweater off and tossed it aside, repeating the same with her jeans. Carefully, she approached him from behind. "Don't shut me out, okay?"

"I'm not shutting you out, I'm crashing and needing another fix. I'm sorry I'm not.…that. Just go take your drugs, okay?" Sherlock said impassively, dropping the rest of his clothes in the laundry bin. "Please."

Assuming he wanted a moment to himself, Natasha stepped back and turned for the door. "Okay," she agreed. "I'm sorry, I just don't know what I'm doing here either."

Closing the door behind her, she took a quick few seconds to collect her scattered emotions and walked over to retrieve her meds from her bag. She downed them with water and set the empty glass down in the sink, feeling unsure and out of her element. Vulnerable and helpless. She paced to the bathroom door and back three times, attempting to decipher whether or not he wanted the company.

Sherlock didn't get in the water, he stood and debated for the first two seconds of her departure if he had enough time to shoot up again. One part of stash was easily accessible through the cupboard wall, but he decided he didn't have enough time. Annoying. What he did deduce happened to be her distinct tread on the hall floor. And it took him another minute to decide what to do about it. Stark naked and still looking very much like the drug addict he was, he opened the door. "C'mere." He requested, making it evident it wasn't an order or an expectation. "I'm sorry."

Natasha approached him quickly and wrapped him up in her arms, heedless of how he looked or what he wore—or didn't, for that matter. Her feet rolled to tiptoes and she pressed her lips to the warm skin of his shoulder. "I'm doing this all wrong," she said softly. "I'll do better, I promise, I was just caught off guard."

"Normally there's shouting or slapping involved. And Mycroft's mastered the angry disappointed look that makes his brow do that funny creasing thing. If you want to try that." Sherlock said, arms gently wrapped around her. "To be fair, I'm not sure there is a right way."

"Shouting and slapping would make you defensive, and that's not what I want." Natasha breathed in and lowered herself to the ground, pulling away to remove her bra. She nudged him back inside the bathroom when she was done and closed the door. "Unless you want me to slap you or shout at you. I'm tired, but I think I can muster up the strength. Shower first."

"I'll think about it. Maybe in the morning." Sherlock pulled her with him into the shower. "Maybe I'll have a case in the morning and we can both just forget it."

"I don't think forgetting is in the cards, but a case would be a good distraction," she agreed. "If there isn't one, I'll find a way to keep you busy. When have I ever let you down?" Reaching for the shower gel, she squeezed a generous amount onto her palm and met his eyes.

"I'm having a hard time finding an answer to that question." He admitted. Because despite his addiction and the need to occupy his mind…he still felt guilty for having her find out, for the injuries she'd dealt with while trying to help him. He felt like he let her, and John, down. "Sorry. Again."

Natasha studied his face for the space of several heartbeats, finally pushing her hands underneath the spray of water and reaching out to lather up his chest. She followed her actions with her eyes, but looked up briefly when she spoke. "Are you really sorry?"

"That is what I'm supposed to be, isn't it?" He breathed in and out against her hands as he went through the motions of washing his black curls. "I'm supposed to be sorry, because my 'ghastly habit' is a bad thing."

"'Ghastly habit'," she repeated. "Sounds like Mycroft." Her hands worked the lather up to his neck and over his shoulders, feeling the moving muscle. "I don't want you to apologize because you're _supposed_ to. I don't care about whether this is 'socially acceptable' or not. I don't care about what other people are expecting… I care about _you_." She met his eyes again, sliding her hands back down his chest. "I care about whether or not you are going to be okay. Whether or not this thing is going to have long term negative effects. Whether or not I'm going to lose you because you took it too far, and I've seen this before. I've seen people take this too far." She held his gaze. "And I care about John and how this is going to affect him too. Because he loves you and as long as you keep doing this, things aren't going to be okay between the two of you. He worries. You know he worries." Pause. "How can I help?"

Sherlock's features softened, going from dismissive drug addict to lost little boy far more quickly than he'd have wanted. "I don't know." He said. "I don't know, if I knew how to fix myself, I'd have figured it out by now. I just can't…handle things sometimes." There was a brief pause but he pressed on. "I'm not going to ask you to stay long term, because I know you need your work, it needs you."

"We can compromise," Natasha said without hesitation. "I won't stop working because I do need my work and it needs me, but my job is flexible enough that I can do it anywhere." She reached up to cup his face, tracing his cheeks with her thumbs. "You're important to me and I want to be there for you. I'll talk to Steve when I go back and we can work out the details."

Sherlock did hesitate, staying her face. "You're not obligated to. And I can't guarantee that would fix me."

"I don't need guarantees because I'm not trying to fix you," she replied. "I just want to be there for you. Not because I'm obligated to, but because I want to. You've been there for me too, haven't you?"

"Yes." He confirmed, his voice lowered. "At least I think so. I thought this was different."

"It's not all that different," she assured him, sliding her arms around him and kissing his soapy chest. "At least not to me. We don't even have to decide right now if you don't want to, but I still want you to know that it's an option."

Sherlock made a note of it, to think about it when he wasn't crashing or feeling ill. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Sounds good." He said, practicing words he was becoming more comfortable with saying. "I love you."

"Love you too." Natasha held him a moment longer underneath the warm spray of water, eventually letting him go so they could finish their shower.


	35. Chapter 35

Once they were both clean and dry, Natasha slipped into a pair of silky black pajama shorts and matching camisole, and stole one of Sherlock's dressing gowns.

She'd promised John she'd search for Sherlock's stash, and she would, but she was still experiencing something of a dilemma. Sobriety wasn't the sort of thing that could be forced overnight. Natasha knew that. Staying clean was an everyday struggle for Sherlock, from what she'd gathered. Getting rid of his stash would eliminate easy access to it and perhaps, to a point, the temptation to seek another hit, but that only worked if he was determined to stop using altogether. And even though she knew Sherlock loved her and regretted hurting both her and John, she also wasn't convinced that was the case.

Natasha was no stranger to destructive habits, and she understood the fleeting comfort of them perhaps better than most. She knew screaming and fighting and pushing wouldn't help. What he needed was understanding and support, and yes, maybe a strong hand to pull him out if he got in too deep—and she could give him that in spades.

There were no hesitations and no second thoughts. The decision was made. Fiercely and wholeheartedly, this was the only way Natasha knew how to love.

Of course, finding Sherlock's stash wasn't quite so easy. For one thing, Sherlock was a genius, and he'd been hiding his habit for years now. He knew someone would always come looking for his stash, whether it was John, Mycroft, or Lestrade.

Natasha was a frequent visitor too and she had a habit of snooping. Sherlock would've made sure she didn't stumble onto it while she went through his things. He would've also split it between hiding places.

Whatever the case, Natasha's search didn't immediately turn anything up. Tired, jet-lagged and maybe a little fuzzy from her pain meds, she resolved to search again in the morning. She set the alarm on her phone, tossed it onto the bedside table in Sherlock's room, and sat heavily on the mattress.

Sherlock was already curled up under the blankets in his old pajamas. His eyes were open and staring at her as she sat down. It wasn't too much longer before he silently tugged on her shirt and pulled her close. Their arms wrapped around each other and no words were spoken.

He wasn't particularly fond of copious amounts of conversation anyways, and he didn't have anything else to say. Nothing that couldn't wait until the morning. Natasha was a good partner for him, because she didn't talk when there wasn't need to and understood the silence better than most. It was a rare trait.

Sleep found him shortly thereafter and he slept hard, lost in a world that wasn't plagued with boredom and the call of old habits. Unfortunately, it never lasted, for the alarm sounded in the dim light of his bedroom. He made a small noise and stretched. "Mmorning." His sleep heavy voice was very low as his brain came out of the fog only to a headache.

"Morning," she answered sleepily, with her face still buried in the crook of his neck.

Pulling away, she reached behind her until her hand bumped against her phone on the bedside table. She resisted the urge to throw it against the wall and shut it off with a swipe of her finger, dropping it back on the mattress once she'd checked the time. She didn't want to get up and leave the warmth of his arms just yet.

With her eyes closed, she rolled back to Sherlock's side and snuggled up close, throwing an arm around his chest and twining one of her legs with his. "How do you feel?"

"Heavy and foggy, but I'm fine." Sherlock rumbled, unsure how to describe the sense of crash that accompanied a high. "Need coffee. And a case."

"I'll get the coffee. You check your e-mail, see if there's anything interesting." Natasha pressed a sleepy kiss just below his jaw. "John's coming by today too."

"Yeah, I remember," he replied, obviously nervous about the wrath off his best friend. "Who knows, maybe there'll be a case and I won't have to bother with that. We'll just be…back to normal."

Natasha opened her eyes and tipped her head back to meet his eyes. "You will be," she assured him in hushed tones, matching the quiet atmosphere in the room. "Eventually. You'll both be back to normal and working cases, but this is always going to hurt him and he's always going to worry." She slid a hand underneath his t-shirt and pressed it over his heart. "If you can't find a case that interests you, I have an idea. Do you trust me?"

"Probably." Sherlock said, his mouth twitching into a curious smile. "But yes, I think I do."

Smiling in return, Natasha leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, the first since she'd arrived. "I'll go make coffee," she said once she'd pulled away, reluctantly extricating herself from his arms.

Sherlock was left and he definitely planned on kissing her again as soon as he was up and caffeinated. He climbed out of the bed, pulled on his blue dressing gown and followed her out to the kitchen. He skipped the coffee maker and headed to his laptop, plopping down in his chair like any other day.

A minute of scanning the options, checking his phone and the news, he was left with nothing. No global catastrophes, no murders, nothing above a five on his scale. Not surprising, but very disappointing and he shoved the laptop aside with a huff. He eyed her and stood up again, all floppy hair and disheveled dressing gown. "Coffee then?" He said as he snagged the sugar from the pantry. "Anything else?"

"I've got the toast." Natasha had been sending texts and making arrangements while he checked his emails, but set her phone down now with a quick smile. She slid a mug of black coffee his way and eyed him appreciatively. She'd missed him, and it was evident in both her expression and demeanor. "Nothing interesting, then?"

"Nothing, zip, nada, zero." He replied just a bit dramatically as he dumped his usual sugar into the coffee and stirred with a delicate hand. "I'm losing my mind. I need a case. I need _something_." He glanced at her, softening just slightly. "Not that I'm not grateful you're here…I might have missed you. But I'm _bored."_

Her smile grew. "I've already made arrangements to fix that for you," she said. "You'll have to wait until after John pays you a visit, but I think you'll like it. Can you handle the suspense until then?"

"Probably not." Sherlock answered without a beat. But he tried a smile in return. "We'll play deductions. John will be here in exactly forty-eight minutes. I believe I can figure it out by then."

"You've got yourself a deal." Natasha winked and lifted her coffee to her lips for an experimental sip, lowering a moment later. "And for the record," she added, taking a step closer, leaning against the counter, "I missed you too."

"I'm not surprised, it's only logical." Sherlock returned. "You did have me for over a month last time you were around. Frankly it's been too quiet with you gone. Though, for the record, I'd rather you not hurt when you visit."

Natasha smiled softly. "It's not so bad," she assured him. "Pain, I can handle. I promise I'm fully functional, I just didn't feel like waiting until I'd healed to come see you." Her brows pulled together uncertainly. "Is that okay?"

"I meant…" Sherlock swept over to pull her closer to him, to wipe the uncertainty off of her face. "When you were last here. I like it when you stay with me, but not because you need a month to heal from nearly dying in Russia." He stared her her, unwavering, coffee forgotten. "I can't lose you either."

"Oh." Natasha softened completely in his arms, reaching up to curl her fingers into the silky softness of his dressing gown. "In that case, I'll do my best to stay alive and unhurt. You won't lose me. I'm yours," she promised. "Kiss me?"

"Yes ma'am." Sherlock did as asked and pressed their lips together in an actual kiss. He cupped the back of her head with his hand and allowed himself another type of high.

John came sometime later, both checking on Sherlock's health as well as catching up with Natasha. There wasn't any shouting, but there was a serious discussion about Sherlock's health and the chances of him not coming back from the next doss house he crashed in. John stayed about an hour before he had to leave again, with a kiss on the cheek for Natasha and a pointed but affectionate look at Sherlock.

Afterwards Sherlock and Natasha readied themselves for the distraction she had planned for him. He hadn't been able to deduce it yet, and it was slightly frustrating. But he was anticipating it. He pulled on his coat and held out his hand for Natasha to take. "We're taking a cab though, to get there."

Natasha laced their fingers and pulled him down the stairs. "Yes we are," she confirmed. "It's easier than stealing Mycroft's car. Although maybe not as fun."

She'd pulled a few strings, called in a few favors and brokered a deal with Tony Stark, but she'd gotten what she wanted. They'd be taking one of Stark's quinjets out for a spin for the whole evening.

She'd already filed a flight plan and everything, and that was really the only complication. Tony's security system was top of the line, but Natasha was still perfectly capable of bypassing it to steal something if the whim took her.

She spoke again as they stepped outside. "Maybe next time," she added, while Sherlock flagged down a cab.

"Not sure it'd be advisable after…well you know. He's probably extra vigilant with me today. I doubt we could get in and out without being caught." Sherlock held the cab door open for her.

Natasha climbed inside. "If he protects his car like he protects his MI5 database, it shouldn't be a problem," she said in humor, squeezing his hand reassuringly once he was settled in next to her. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." He answered dismissively. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You know exactly why I'm asking," she said. "But if you say you're fine, I won't push. I'm just checking. Concern comes with the territory."

"I know." Sherlock said with a careful but gentle tone. There was an understood silence the rest of the cab ride. Sherlock had decided to simply act like nothing had been the matter. He'd deal with this struggle another day, another time, when he wasn't the sole concern of everyone's worry. He'd missed every deduction about where they were going and when the cab pulled up at the proper location, he squinted his eyes slightly out the window. "I'm assuming this is the place."

"Yes." Natasha paid the cabbie and climbed out of the cab, sliding her hand back into Sherlock's once they were walking again. "Tony's private hangar," she explained.

Given that it was private and rarely used, the place was small but heavily secured. Natasha led Sherlock to the front gate, where they were admitted and escorted into the hangar itself. A quinjet was already waiting, with its ramp down for them to climb up through.

Natasha was given paperwork to sign, and she let go of his hand to take an offered pen. She peeked up at him when she was through, meeting his eyes. "What do you think?"

"I think it's something I've never done before." Sherlock had his hands clasped behind his back, rigid posture and impassive expression. "And I think it has the possibility to be interesting. A good possibility, of course, it is your idea."

"Well I need a co-pilot, which means I need _you_ on your toes." Natasha winked and tipped her head towards the quinjet, leading him inside. "Come on, I'll give you an overview."

His reaction when stepping into the high-tech jet was subtle, but not surprised. Slowly calculating and attempting to decipher what each component did. He loosed his scarf and took a seat where he was supposed to. "I take it back, I think this is going to be fun."

"I'll try not to disappoint. We do have the whole night." Natasha settled in and closed the hatch, reaching for her headset. She slipped it on with a faint smile, issuing a few straightforward instructions for take-off. "Just follow my lead," she concluded. "Ready?"

There was something very alluring about her here in this space, doing what she did while saving the world. He fell in love with her all over again in the strangest places. And it was here, where she was trying to keep him busy and away from the distractions and struggles he faced. He was definitely keeping her. Sherlock smirked, nodding once. "Ready."

Natasha's smile grew in response and she stole an eager peek his way as they eased out of the hangar, out into the open. Clearance for takeoff came in through the radio a moment later, followed by a quick weather forecast. Together they lifted the jet off the ground and disappeared into the night, bright stars twinkling amidst sparse grey clouds.

Once they veered away from the sprawling sea of lights that was London, the view changed into something else entirely but no less spectacular. Natasha took a moment to appreciate it once they'd reached their desired altitude, but eventually relaxed and allowed her attention to drift back to Sherlock.

"How do you feel about taking control for a little bit?" she asked after a few seconds of quiet contemplation.

"How do you feel about putting your life in my inexperienced hands?"

"I'll walk you through it, don't worry," she assured him. "I've got you. And you'll like the rush."

"As much as it pains me to admit, you are right." Sherlock deadpanned. His long fingers reached for the controls in the co-pilot seat and settled into place just how he'd watched her do it. "Let's go."

Natasha turned her eyes ahead and sat up straight, itching to share another kind of rush with Sherlock to distract him from everything they'd left down below. Up here it was just the two of them, untouchable and unreachable if only for a moment. Up here there was freedom.

Flicking a switch, she issued another series of instructions, quick and to the point. She stole another peek at him when she was done, intense and anticipatory. "All yours," she said meaningfully.

Sherlock took control carefully, meticulously following her instructions to the letter. Wouldn't do to go plummeting down into central London. "Yes, I am." He said, even thought several minutes had passed. "You're stuck."

"You're stuck with me too," she replied, laughing quietly into the emptiness of the cockpit. "I love you," she said after a short pause, earnest and soft.

"Let's hope you still love me after this." He turned the quinjet sharply, angling upwards to ascend again. There was a smirk on his face and his eyes were fixed on the sky that stretched around them.

Natasha was pressed back into her seat by both the angle and speed, and this time there was nothing quiet about her laugh. "My ship and my heart are yours to command," she paused for dramatic effect, flashing a rogue smile, " _Pirate._ "

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you so much to our reviewers, and those who have favorited and followed, we appreciate you all!


	36. Chapter 36

The months passed, the times were good. Better than good really, but neither of them were going to ramble on about it. At least not verbally. One could catch both of them absently smiling when thoughts wandered or comments were made.

Sherlock's ghastly habit had actually gotten better after a combination of increased time with Natasha and taking as many cases as he could possibly solve. His mind was fueled some times and calmed during others. After four decades of life, Sherlock Holmes had finally figured out a decent system for himself. He lived a life with Natasha and they were better for it together. Despite being busy, there was nothing particularly abnormal that happened in their lives. John wrote about case after case in his blog. Natasha flew in whenever she could. Sherlock kept to his usual routine.

But it was some months later that Sherlock Holmes found himself in a less than pleasant situation. He'd been chasing a lead on his own, no John, no Natasha, no big brother watching his back. That was his first, and fatal, mistake.

He'd been on a case, a case which he'd solved. But in the middle of that, he'd gotten a clue that led him to another case, another problem to solve. Something far more dangerous, which of course meant he was much more interested.

A private military group was operating out of Switzerland. A small army for hire, for anyone who could pay for it, and didn't mind making their own work. This group was responsible for several terrorist hits over Europe, including one in London. That had been the one that had caught Sherlock's attention.

Tracking them hadn't been that difficult, not when one was Sherlock Holmes and knew exactly what to look for. The facility was tucked in amid the mountains and rivers and otherwise deserted landscape of the Alps. Sherlock's plan was simple: infiltrate base, gauge effort to take it down, gather evidence, and then present evidence to the Swiss government. The government wasn't going to act without evidence, so that was part was imperative.

Little did he know that he'd be going in and he wasn't going to be coming out.

He'd slipped into the complex at dusk. Dressed accordingly, he could blend into any environment. It took him very little time to identify the important buildings around the complex. It was complex, built amid a collection of old warehouses, now converted into storage and training areas. It was small, with narrow spaces and old machinery. Not exactly the place one would expect a private military to operate from. But that was the point, wasn't it?

He'd slipped into a smaller building, one that housed a few offices, if one could call them that. The lights were off and the desks were empty. He moved in and promptly got to work on one of the laptops.

The squeak of a door was the only thing he heard before his body was suddenly rushed with the sharp electricity of a taser. His muscles seized and spasmed until he was left writhing on the ground. An eternity later it stopped.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, you're early, I'm wondering what to do with you now." The voice was low, and spoke in slightly accented English, even as footsteps approached. It was also familiar, but Sherlock couldn't place it right then.

"Wha-" Sherlock blinked a couple times, but his attempt to push himself off of the ground induced another session with the taser.

"Just stay down, I'm bringing in someone to collect you. My apologies your room is not ready yet." A sharp blow to his head and Sherlock slumped into unconsciousness.

Hours later, Sherlock woke up to complete darkness. He'd been stripped down to his black trousers and was currently handcuffed to a chair. His arms strained behind him as he tested his bonds. He blinked a couple times, concluding that it wasn't pitch dark, he was simply blindfolded. He tuned his ears to his surroundings. Wide space, but machinery and storage surrounded him. Legs tied to chair, chair bolted to ground, he wasn't going to be getting out of it, apparently. It was relatively quiet, so it must still have been the middle of the night. Footsteps clicked in the space, so he turned his head towards where they were coming from.

"You're very impressive, Mr Holmes. I've been keeping up with your exploits." The same voice said. "A proper genius, driven, ambitious, talented, the lover of a very beautiful woman. One would think you…have it all."

For once, Sherlock was annoyed with all the drama, so he got right to the point instead of answering the statement. "Who are you?"

"It's probably fitting you can't remember me, it has been a while. Over two years now, if I remember correctly. I do I believe you were a bit…roughed up last we spoke."

Sherlock drew in a deep breath, that bit of information clicking everything together. Paris, two years ago. "Ah."

"Oh, and you don't remember my name, I'm not sure we were properly introduced." He chuckled. "Moreau. Pierre Moreau. Now, impress me, Mr Holmes."

"You lost your position in the group I broke apart during my mission in Eastern Europe, concluding in Paris two years ago. You were the one who was supposed to prevent an intruder from gaining access to the sensitive information that I used to destroy your little band. Which is why when you caught me you were so…enthusiastic about making me pay. I escaped again and you were held responsible. Dangerous consequences. But you escaped and found a position here, I'd guess manager or coordinator judging by your shoes and your desk. No physical activity, which means you suffered some sort of injury during your escape. Judging by the lack of a limp, I'd guess arm or shoulder, face even. You were expecting me, which means that hit in London wasn't just for profit, you lured me here…and I fell for it." Sherlock's professional tone took on a bitter quality, berating himself for it. "And now you're going to kill me. Did I get anything wrong?"

"No, that sounded just about right. They had to amputate my left arm below the elbow, and I am head international coordinator of this operation. This _was_ a trap, but I'm still quite impressed with your skills. There was one thing you got a bit wrong. I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to put you through so much pain, you're going to _want_ to die. Just like you were supposed to so long ago." The sound of something buzzing filled the space. Cattle prod. "Shall we begin?"


	37. Chapter 37

Sherlock Holmes was missing.

It took two nights for Mrs Hudson to contact John. Sherlock was known for just taking off, and John knew that, but something felt off. John in turn called Lestrade, and Mycroft a bit later. The latter attempted to track Sherlock's phone, but was left with nothing. Likely due to the phone itself being destroyed, he'd said.

Everyone was on edge. And everyone did their best to figure out how to find him. Lestrade organized search parties, contacting the Homeless Network as well. John and Mary went over everything in Sherlock's flat. Mycroft using all his resources to try to find his little brother.

Their options were limited, because Sherlock's trail essentially went cold, aside from just a few clues from the last case he'd worked. He had been missing for three days when John, sitting in Mycroft's office with nothing more than a vague notion, called the 'only in case of emergency' number they had for one Natasha Romanoff.

Natasha had been in the middle of a meeting with the rest of the Avengers when the call came through. John's name on the screen of her personal phone sent up an immediate red flag. Her number was private, and she'd given it to both John and Mary to use in case of emergencies only. Evidently something deserving of the name had occurred.

Excusing herself from her teammates, Natasha slipped out of the room to take the call. "John," she greeted quietly once she was alone out in the hallway. "What's wrong? What's happened? Where's Sherlock?" She glanced at her watch for the time. "Do you need me to come over?"

"Sherlock's missing." John said, far more calmly than one might expect. A waiting storm of a worried friend. "He disappeared three days ago, we've exhausted the other options. Mycroft thinks he's out of the country, but we don't know for sure." He took a deep breath. "If you can spare the time…we could use you."

Natasha gripped the phone just a little tighter and closed her eyes. "I'll be there," she said evenly. "I'll text you as soon as I get in and we can meet at his place. Shouldn't be more than three or four hours, I'm in Nice. France. Stark can fly me out." She paused. "I'll see you soon."

Once the call cut off, she opened her eyes and pocketed her phone. Bruce Banner's disappearance abroad had at least one miraculous silver lining. Time was usually of the essence in disappearance cases. Considering what Sherlock did for a living, that was truer in his case. Natasha slipped back inside the room and sidled up to Steve, pulling him aside to rattle off what few details she knew and excuse herself. Staging an intervention with Bruce Banner and asking him to come home was meant to be a group effort, but she could be spared.

Steve put himself at her disposal should she need his assistance and she promised to pull him into the fray if that proved to be the case. Bags packed, she waited for Tony to exit the meeting to approach him, and he readily made arrangements for her to fly out in his private jet. Within an hour and a half, she was up in the air and on her way.

Natasha was good in a crisis. She was calm and even tempered, capable of detached analysis. She'd trained a lifetime under the most extreme circumstances and these skills that were as much as part of her personality, as a product of careful cultivation. But the reality of the situation was that she'd never dealt with a crisis where someone she loved, the way she loved Sherlock Holmes, was in such immediate and unknown danger.

Regardless of the words they used to tell other people what they were to each other, to Natasha Sherlock was always _home._ She was in no way equipped to deal with even the hint of the possibility that her home might be taken from her. _All the more reason to stay on point and focus._ Cutting off those thoughts before they had a chance to get the better of her, she focused on coming up with a game plan. She was good at finding people and she'd apply the same methods to the task at hand. She'd find Sherlock, wherever he was, and bring him home.

Tony's jet landed in London after approximately two hours of flight time, and she climbed out to board one of Mycroft's private cars. The car ride was spent in silence once she'd informed the driver of her destination, and soon she was stepping out in front of 221B.

John was already inside. The good doctor was seated in his chair, hands fisted on the arm rests. He glanced up at her and got right into it without a greeting. "Mycroft has everything we know in a file. It's on the table."

"Including cases he last worked on?" Natasha asked, but her question was answered moments later when she opened her file and had a look inside herself. "I'm going to need Mycroft to have transport ready so we can leave as soon as we know where Sherlock is."

"I have no doubt he's got everything you need ready and at your disposal." John said, relaxing back into the seat. Not a calm relaxed, but an exhausted one. He hadn't slept much in the last day and it showed. "He's more than worried and working everything he can from his end."

Natasha didn't reply. Instead she picked up the file and carried it over to Sherlock's chair, never once ungluing her eyes from its contents. Receipts, printouts, pictures, call logs, and a number of other papers were flipped through in quick succession. She could follow Sherlock's steps through his last couple of cases to a point, but then hit a dead end. Every possible trail fading to nothing when followed to its conclusion. She reviewed the information again with the same result, and finally snapped the file closed. "There has to be something else." Rising out of Sherlock's chair, she moved over to his desk to retrieve his laptop.

"Mycroft went through his computer and emails, he couldn't find anything else." John said, his hands ideally playing with his phone in his lap. "Everything suggests Sherlock left of his own free will-" He was interrupted as the phone in his hands rang. John blinked at the blocked number that flashed on his screen and glanced once at Natasha, turning it to speaker phone as he answered it. "Hello?"

The voice at the other end was instantly recognizable, and Sherlock spoke quickly and quietly as he rattled off a series of numbers. "Lat 47. 3. 20. Long 7. 58. 56. I don't have much time-"

Natasha's head whipped around at the sound of Sherlock's voice coming from John's phone and in two strides was beside him with her own phone in her hands. "That's Switzerland," she spoke once she'd brought up the coordinates on her screen. "Near the Alps. Sherlock," she spoke to him next, apprehension evident in her voice. "Injuries?"

"Yes." Sherlock said, his tone further hushed than it was before. "Private militant group…he wanted revenge…no time left-" he stopped off as another voice came over the phone, shouting in German. A scuffle heard, a gunshot went off, Sherlock cried out, and then the phone went dead.


	38. Chapter 38

"Sherlock," Natasha said quickly, snatching the phone out of John's hand, knowing he wouldn't answer but unable to keep herself from calling for him anyway. When there was no reply, she returned the item to John's hands and paced away. Ragged breaths. Shaky hands. Heart going a mile minute. She was panicking. _Top of your game, remember? Focus._ She recognized Sherlock's words inside her head from the R2 mission and sprung into action.

"Let's go," she told John, grabbing her bag and starting down the stairs. "I'll contact Mycroft on our way to the airport, his car's waiting for us outside."

"Right." John said as he stood up. He was all ready to go, years of military service having conditioned him to be ready for any situation. Even if that situation meant flying to the continent to save your best friend from what was likely to be certain death. He had his gun in his jacket, along with his usual small first aid kit. There would be another in the plane, and he could make use of it. There were injuries, but there was no telling what those injuries were. Or if that bullet had hit it's target. Maybe Sherlock was bleeding to death that very moment. And there was nothing he could bloody do about it. He was panicking too, but they had work to do. Soon they left the empty 221B and piled into the black sedan that had been Natasha's escort upon arriving.

"It's me," Natasha spoke once Mycroft picked up the phone, and proceeded to detail the events of the last few minutes along with a request for fully equipped transport to the coordinates Sherlock had given them. She could see John out of the corner of her eye, but she didn't allow her thoughts to stray. She wouldn't be able to cope if she did.

Even if the evidence did point to Sherlock's already wounded body having been hit by a bullet. Even if the odds of finding him alive had gone from minimal to nearly nonexistent. Even if her thought process didn't only dictate but _demand_ that she accept the all too real probability of Sherlock's demise, Natasha Romanoff would not—could not—let her thoughts stray.

Sentiment, she was riddled with it when she shouldn't be. This was the time to retreat into cold calculation, but she couldn't overcome what was the sentimental hurdle of Sherlock's near invincibility in her eyes. He was too smart, too quick, too bright, too determined, too stubborn, too passionate, too strong, too _hers_ to die. He was her _home_ when she'd resigned herself to living without one. He was her place in the world when she thought she had none, and she was not about to lose him—the man she'd given her heart to, for keeps—to a bullet in the middle of nowhere because someone else decided he needed to die. _Hell no._

Mycroft informed her there would be a private plane usually used to transport high ranking MI6 officials at the airport, and she ended the call without further ceremony. Next she texted Steve with the coordinates and asked him to meet her there as soon as possible, giving no other details because he would need none. Natasha asking for help was enough of a giveaway. The rest of the ride over to the airport was silent.

Once the car pulled to a stop, she grabbed her bag full of her own gear and slipped out the door towards the plane. "I asked Mycroft to provide us with a fully equipped plane," she told John upon entering the aircraft. "There should be tactical gear in here for you."

"Good, I probably should have…expected that." John said distractedly as he followed, running a hand through his hair as he followed her onto the expensive plane. "And it sounds like we'll need it. I'll change as soon as we're airborne."

John paused, trying to focus on the task at hand. He was more than certain working with the Natasha Romanoff meant that they'd be able to do whatever they could to get Sherlock out. If they didn't, which he couldn't let himself think about, it wouldn't be because they didn't try their very best. He plopped down in a seat, pursing his lips as he looked out the window. "That bastard better be alive." He commented quietly.

"If he's not, I'm not leaving a single person breathing in that place," she told him once she'd settled into her own seat, knowing John wouldn't hesitate to do the same. If he'd been willing to kill a man because Sherlock had been in danger barely a day after they'd met, she was sure he wouldn't bat an eye before taking out a whole building if they'd killed him for good. "Frankly, I might not leave anyone alive regardless."

"Priority is getting Sherlock out." John said. Not that she didn't know that already, but he felt better saying it aloud. "We're probably on a very delicate timetable if he is injured as badly as we suspect. We can always go back to finish the job."

"I intend to." Natasha softened her tone with her next words. "I'm operating under the belief that he is alive but under the worst possible circumstances. Steve's going to meet us there to help with the extraction, I've already texted him."

"Steve…Rogers." John supplied for himself. "Right, I'll try to keep up, it's been awhile since I've been in the _actual_ field. Contrary to Sherlock's belief, casework is a bit different than military extractions. Not less, just different."

"I have every confidence you'll keep up about as well as anyone can with a super soldier," she replied, and paused a short moment. "It'll be fine."

Once the plane was airborne, they had an hour and a half before landing in Bern. In that time, John changed into tactical gear, something he hadn't done since his army days. But it fit and he felt comfortable in it. He also had an extensive field medical kit with some added new technologies. Hopefully enough to get Sherlock stable enough to transport. Or maybe Sherlock would just be fine, sporting a sore shoulder or something and they could just go home with a sarcastic remark and a laugh for later. John doubted it.

The plane touched down, and they'd been given use of a vehicle by whoever was Mycroft's contact in Switzerland. Night was falling by this point, and the colors of the sunset shone over the mountains that surrounded the city. John absently rested his hand on his gun, double checking the last bit of gear.

Natasha changed into her own black suit, this one without the previous S.H.I.E.L.D. logo. Steve, having arrived shortly before they had, approached in his dark blue and white Commander Rogers uniform.

His expression was solemn. "Nat," he greeted first, extending his hand to John a moment later. "Doctor Watson. Do you prefer to be addressed by rank?"

"Just John, please." John said, shaking the man's hand with a professional nod. "A pleasure to meet you, Captain Rogers, I just wish it was under better circumstances."

"Feeling's mutual," he assured him. "And just Steve, please." He turned his eyes to Natasha. "What's the play?"

Natasha led them over to their vehicle. "They're going to drop us off as close to the coordinates I sent you as possible without being spotted," she explained. "After that, we're on foot. Sherlock's hurt and we don't know how bad or how many warm bodies they've got for security at his location. Priority is getting Sherlock out. John will stabilize if need be, and we call for extraction."

"Sounds like a plan." John said with a curt nod. He slipped in the backseat, taking a deep breath once he'd settled down.

The ride to the location was spent in silence. The sun had set and a cloudy night blanketed the mountain landscape. Sherlock had the best team possible going in after him, and that was a bit of a comfort, even in the dire circumstance. John just hoped the bastard would be alive to appreciate the effort put into rescuing him.

They reached Sherlock's location after a long trek that brought them to a copse of trees not too far away from a side entrance. Security outside didn't seem as insurmountable as it'd had in places Natasha and Steve had infiltrated in the past, but that didn't mean the inside would be the same.

And of course, appearances could be deceiving. _Fallaces sunt rerum species._

The buildings were set up in such a way that they resembled a military compound, fenced in with makeshift towers North, South, East and West. They were manned by people instead of sensors, which meant they had the advantage. People made mistakes. Sensors were trickier to fool without the proper gear and a plan assembled on the fly.

Steve was practiced in stealth missions as was Natasha and they favored the element of surprise. Considering they were going in blind, they had a small window to make good use of. Steve took up point once they'd surveilled the area the requisite amount of time.

"I'll go in first," he spoke quietly. "Nat, you go in with John when I give you the signal. Ideas on where they'd be keeping him?"

Natasha thought back to the call while she studied the structure that was their current objective. The sound of the gunshot was their biggest and most significant clue. The gunshot that might've killed Sherlock or left him bleeding to death with nothing but enemies to keep him company. _Focus._ "Small room, no windows," she replied. "That's our safest bet."

"Basement?" Steve asked.

"More than likely," Natasha confirmed.

"I agree. We'll wait while you go ahead." John said, casting a worried glance around the area. Trouble is, these people knew Sherlock had contacted someone. Their guard would be higher, their retaliation stronger, and Sherlock's life even more in the firing line. Revenge meant that Sherlock didn't matter. Whether they kept him alive an hour or a week didn't matter.

But John was working with a super solider and a master assassin, both better than he was. If anyone could save Sherlock Holmes, it was this team.

Steve turned his eyes to Natasha and reached for the shield on his back. "Cover me."

"Got you covered," she assured him as she opened the hard case she'd brought with her from the plane Mycroft Holmes had provided them with. She assembled her brand new Dragunov with quick efficiency. Steve disappeared between the trees and she cast a glance in John's direction. "Watch my back while I cover Steve."

Rising from the ground with the assembled weapon in hand, she found herself even ground where she could lay down on. Weapon settled with its legs embedded on the ground, she peeked through the scope and found Steve before she began scanning his surroundings for possible threats.

Steve's voice came back over the radio a few tense minutes later. "Clear. Ready for you."

Natasha stowed the hard case behind a fallen log and secured the sniper rifle on her back. "Any sign of Sherlock yet?" She asked Steve before signaling for John to follow and starting towards the building.

"Nothing yet. There's a couple options as far as possible locations, though." Steve said. "You'll see them, first is three hundred yards ahead on your nine o'clock."

"Best chance he has is not alerting them to our presence." John added. "Sweep the buildings one by one."

"Thoughts on splitting up?" Natasha asked them both once she and John neared the first building and took care not to be seen. "I can take this one and John can take the next."

"I don't see why not, especially if we're on the clock. Stay in radio contact. I'll kept watch out here." Steve replied first.

"Works for me-" John started, but was cut off by the sound of a speaker system turning on. Classical music drifted over the otherwise quiet campus. "And what's that?"

Natasha drew and checked both her handguns. "Either a tease or a clue," she said barely above a whisper. "Either way, we can't all investigate. I can find who's manning the speaker system while you and Steve keep searching."

"Sounds good." John and Steve spoke at the same time. The former, stepped around Natasha, drawing his own gun and stalking off towards the first building. He was in the mood to just shoot whoever stood in his way, but a firefight wasn't their best bet.

"Silence until we find him," she spoke one last time, turning to search for the building housing the controls to the speaker system.

The music continued, progressing from quiet to agitated in the three minutes it took from them to completely spread out. The next thing was something that none of them wanted to hear. A too familiar scream echoed through the sound system.

"They know we're here. Step it up." Steve said over the radio as he jumped off of the perch he was in and started running towards the next building.

"On it." Natasha ducked into the next building, guns at the ready in case anyone decided to do something stupid like try to stop her. The building was narrow, but there were dark nooks on either side of the door. Swiveling cameras down the narrow corridor, and a set of stairs presumably leading to a second floor. Sherlock's scream had set her on edge and brought out the vicious side of her, the one she needed to keep a lid on if she wanted to focus on getting him out because he was alive.

She slid quietly into one of the shadowed corners once she'd entered through the front door, and eyed the cameras. Same as she'd done in every other building. They were hidden but noticeable and their turn spanned the length of the hallway, should she choose to take that route. Then again, there were no others. Standard, same as in every other building. Much as she wanted to, she couldn't simply storm the place without compromising Sherlock's life. They knew they were there, but she didn't have to completely give herself away. She still had a few tricks up her sleeve.

This particular trick was a one-shot. An attachment to her Widow's Bite gauntlets that would send out a frequency to loop any and all cameras within the building for exactly two minutes. Long enough to find him and get him out? Probably not if he couldn't walk, and then she wasn't sure if this particular building was _the_ building. Which was to say, she needed to focus and make a few deductions of her own. Milk those two minutes as much as she could.

Amount of cameras? Above the average by two. Security personnel? Two stationed in the hallway, but upstairs she could hear more. How many? Hard to tell. _Deficient, Natasha. Focus._ How many? Eight? Ten? All of them upstairs? She holstered her weapons and slipped out of her corner to take care of the two guards manning the entrance hallway. They walked the length of it from door to stairs and back again. She waited for them to approach the front door, activated the loop and two snapped necks later, she was quietly making her way up the stairs.

She paused at the top when her entrance was blocked by a door. Standard lock. Easy enough to pick, but would they know? And if they did, would they kill him quickly? Would she have time to intervene? Thirty seconds had already gone by, and she needed to make a decision.


	39. Chapter 39

While John and Steve searched the other buildings, Sherlock was in the one Natasha had picked. His captor was currently in the room with him, fairly confident that the sheer number of soldiers would be able to capture whoever was just outside. The plan was then to make Sherlock watch him kill whoever happened upon then.

And that was something Sherlock was not going to be able to do. So he'd resisted, using his last remaining strength to fight back, try to get the upper hand. Naturally, his broken transport was not functioning well. And the result had been something excruciatingly painful as Moreau twisted the sharpened pole already lodged in Sherlock's left shoulder. He didn't scream this time, his reaction nothing more than a pained whimper as he slumped in a corner. "Please…"

"The great Sherlock Holmes is begging?" Moreau laughed lightly, the gun was now in his only hand and casually pointed at the dying detective. "Took longer than I thought. Pity, I was hoping to keep you around for a couple more days at least. That phone incident was uncalled for. That's why I'm going to do this. The final piece before I put you out of your misery."

Just outside the door, Natasha heard the murmurs inside, and the faintest of whimpers. "I found the building," she whispered over the radio to both Steve and John before quickly rattling off its location, low enough that no one else would hear. "I'm estimating ten guards inside the room. I'm going in."

Reaching for the doorknob, she gave it an experimental twist and found it unlocked. So much for picking the lock, but then that meant they wanted her inside. She pushed the door open and quickly drew both her guns.

Natasha had been right, of course, they were waiting for her. When the door opened, they attacked, nine of them minus Moreau, who stood next to Sherlock with a pistol in his hand. The soldiers were armed with tasers, and other weapons for subduing someone instead of killing them.

The room was bigger than the cell they'd been holding him in, and Sherlock was slumped in the far corner. He was stripped down to his underwear again, which gave plenty of opportunity to witness the hell they'd put him through the last three and a half days. He had a gash on his outer thigh made by a bullet, and the metal pole, about a foot and a half long, stuck out of his shoulder. Those were the worst of his injuries, but he was marked with days of beatings again, bruises and abrasions and burns. His eyes widened as Natasha entered the room.

Six guards went down with Natasha before they could subdue her. Three shot, two stabbed and one knocked unconscious with a nasty hit of her Widow's Bite. The three remaining guards weren't gentle with her, tasering until she dropped her handhelds and then stripping her of her sniper rifle. She didn't make it easy, and in the process earned herself a couple of bruised ribs and a split lip. She fixed her eyes on Sherlock's once they made her kneel, taking in the sheer amount of injuries inflicted on his body.

It was a miracle he'd survived so much abuse, but it'd be even more of a miracle if she let the man staring beside him with a gun held to his head survive to the end of the day. Getting Sherlock out was priority, but this man would pay if she had to hunt him down herself.

When she finally managed to tear her eyes away from Sherlock to get a proper look at Moreau, the look she gave him was a no holds barred death glare. "I hope you know you're a dead man," she told him evenly. "Even if you make it out of this place, there is nowhere to hide where I won't find you. And when I do? I will make you _hurt_. Torture is an art form in Russia."

"We appreciate many different types of art in France, _Mademoiselle_." Moreau said evenly. "But this is not art. This is finishing a job. A concept I'm sure you're familiar with." The gun moved from pointing at Sherlock to her. "Now, is there anything else you'd like to say? Ideal threats? Last words?"

Natasha didn't dignify Moreau's questions with answers. She'd said her piece and now all she had left was careful observation to gauge the exact moment he'd be pulling the trigger. She wouldn't be able to dodge the bullet completely, but she could make sure it didn't hit anything major. John and Steve would be arriving soon if her calculations were correct, all she had to do was keep Moreau's attention off Sherlock until then.

Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off of her, bloodshot blue and wide and worried and completely vulnerable. He knew he was going to die, he could feel it, and frankly, if he was about to witness Natasha's death, he wasn't sure he wanted to live anyways. Logically, it was pointless to argue or beg. But he wasn't about to let her die as well. He _couldn't_ see that. Instead he shifted, reaching with a shaky hand for the gun hand that was just in swinging range.

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha caught Sherlock's movement. She braced for another struggle before speaking again. "Last words? Pretend I said something witty."

Sherlock had timed it just right with John and Steve's arrival. His long bloodied fingers grasped Moreau's wrist and he pulled the gun away from Natasha's general direction. John and Steve burst into the room, the army doctor firing his weapon at two of the three remaining soldiers before either of them had the chance to react.

Whatever was happening around him, Moreau had a job to finish and he retaliated by grabbing the pole in Sherlock's shoulder and yanking it out one handed. Sherlock cried out again, strangled and pained, pinching his eyes closed and sagging back against the wall as the gun was pointed his direction again.

Natasha didn't hesitate. Grabbing one of the many weapons she'd been stripped of by the guards, she leveled it at Moreau's head and fired. Not torture, but saving Sherlock was foremost in her thoughts. She then turned her attention to the one remaining guard, tucked the tip of her gun beneath his chin and fired a second shot.

With both men becoming nothing more than heaps on the ground, she holstered the gun and darted over to Sherlock's corner. Her eyes were watering and her chest tightening, but she was no less efficient because of it. She crouched beside him and turned his head towards her with a quick but gentle hand. "Stay with me. We're going to get you out of here soon," she said tightly. "John," she called next, "will Steve be able to carry him or will it do more harm than good? I'm calling for extraction as soon as we're out in the hallway."

John was by their side almost immediately, setting the kit down without any ceremony. His hand went to the other side of Sherlock's face, shaking him slightly. "Sherlock? Sherlock, come on, eyes open. Now."

Sherlock obeyed, blinking a few times to bring both of them into focus as John removed his hand and opened the kit. "Mmm here."

"He's bleeding too much." John said tersely, pushing a wad of gauze into the hole in Sherlock's shoulder. "Give me a minute to stabilize him and then we can go. He won't make it outside otherwise."

"I'll call the extraction." Steve said quickly, stepping back towards the door. "Stay here, I'll be right back."

"Ssnothing you can do, J'hn." Sherlock slurred. His eyes closed again, against his will. "S'rry, love."

"No no no no no," Natasha told him shakily. "You stay with me, okay? _Stay with me_. John's saved you before and he can save you again. I'm not losing you here. I _can't_."

"He's already in shock. No, no," John said, his hands steady, his voice not. He had one hand pressed into the wound, the other feeling for the dying detective's pulse. He pulled away to concentrate on working on a temporary patch for the wound. "Too fast…Sherlock, you great bastard. Don't you dare die on me, that's an order!"

Sherlock was losing consciousness quickly, everything slipping out of his grasp as his mind palace collapsed. Wasn't it justice? He'd been saved by Natasha Romanoff when he wasn't supposed to survive, and she'd given him almost two and a half years. Extra years with John, and his family, and solving cases, and falling in love. The job was done, he'd lived to the fullest, the game was over.

He didn't want to die, _God no_. But it was happening anyways. And he had to embrace it, death was an old friend after all.

He forced his eyes open one more time, blearily focusing on Natasha, opposed to John who was rushing to save his life. God, she looked so scared. But he couldn't find the words to reassure her. Instead he smiled, just barely noticeably. A smile conveying gratitude, love, everything unspoken, years they wouldn't get to see together in seconds of eye contact, a promise for her. _I loved you. I needed you. I never wanted to let you go…._ His brilliant silver-blue eyes closed again. A moment later, Sherlock's chest fell without rising and his tired blood-starved heart stopped.


	40. Chapter 40

"Sherlock?" Natasha took his face in one of her shaking hands and tipped it back, quickly wedging an arm underneath his torso to circle his waist. Her words ran together in a stream of panicked Russian. " _Open your eyes baby, come on. Don't do this to me. I love you, you hear me? I love you. I can't lose you. Just open your eyes. Just once. For me, come on. Please don't do this to me. Please. Please._ _Please..._ " Her throat convulsed with a thick swallow. _"_ Steve!" She half called, half cried the last over her shoulder, but already she knew what her head was refusing to process.

She was losing him. She was losing her home, her place, the one person she loved more than life itself, her tether to her humanity. Sherlock Holmes, the genius, indomitable detective who'd made it his mission to see past her many masks, to see _her_ , and she was losing him. She wasn't ready. She would never be ready, but it was too soon and she was falling apart.

Too soon, and God, he was dying, bleeding in her arms, and it felt like _hours_ since she'd called for Steve. Where the _hell_ was he? Her thoughts ran together, scattered and hysterical. Her face crumpled into a mess of red nose and wet cheeks, her forehead pressed against the side of Sherlock's head. What pushed past her lips next was a desperate, broken sob. " _Please_."

"Nat." Steve's voice was gentle but firm, and later she'd note that he didn't touch her. "Extraction team's here. I need to take him."

Natasha didn't want to let him go. She'd fall apart if she did. She'd break. In the Red Room they used to tell her she was made of marble, but she was cracking, breaking, chipping like porcelain. So much for that. She turned her head away and tightened her grip on his broken body, as if by holding him close enough she could breathe life back into his limp body. " _Please don't take him away from me."_

Her arms unwound from around Sherlock without her making the conscious decision, and a moment later she was propped up on both her legs by strong hands. _Steve._ Her eyes never left Sherlock's face.

"I need to take him," Steve repeated once he had her steady, and hurriedly bent to scoop Sherlock into his arms, paying close attention to John's orders. John followed closely once Steve was moving, and only then did she notice the room full of operatives and the sheer amount of noise echoing off the walls. She scrambled to follow before Sherlock was out of view, struggling against a sudden hold around her until she broke free, leaving two with bloody noses in her wake. She couldn't leave him. She _wouldn't_ leave him.

So she marched behind the two men with purposeful steps until they'd made it outside.

* * *

While Natasha had experienced it all in slow motion, John had been a flurry of activity as soon as Sherlock stopped breathing. The timetable was so short after the brain lost oxygen. Eight minutes before permanent damage was done. Eight minutes, the countdown started now.

It was possible they could bring him back…but if it took too long, Sherlock's brilliant beautiful brain would not be what it was. Sherlock Holmes would be a shadow. John knew Sherlock would rather die than come back less than himself. So John worked quickly.

He was taking a gamble, a big one, one that held Sherlock's life in the balance. But he figured Sherlock had a better chance if they could get him to a hospital sooner rather than later. It wouldn't take but a minute to get outside and into the extraction vehicle. He'd start CPR there. Seven minutes.

Halfway down the hall he gave Sherlock the first dose of epinephrine, ignoring the man carrying his best friend except for another order to move quickly. His voice was tense, strained, but focused. Because if he didn't focus, Sherlock Holmes would be dead.

Time seemed to blur by the time they were finally outside. There was a helicopter, _thank God_. Bern, Switzerland had some of the top hospitals in Europe. Their chances were getting better. The helicopter team came with one medic who them the rest of the way to the transport as John updated her quickly.

Steve put Sherlock down on the floor in a rush as orders were shouted and everyone piled in. John and the medic, who identified herself as Bauer, ignored everyone else, lost in the focus that was their currently clinically dead patient.

John started CPR as soon as Sherlock was down, pressing as hard as he could on his friend's chest to push blood through his body again. Bauer injected another substance into Sherlock's neck. In between orders, John was shouting at Sherlock, as if that was going to bring him back. "Selfish bastard, just wake up, don't you dare die on us, ungrateful git, you're not allowed, sodding bastard. Wake up!"

The defibrillator was ready. John pulled away to activate it and three thousand volts shot through Sherlock's limp body.

* * *

Sherlock snapped his eyes open, inhaling deeply and rolling his shoulders back. The area around him was entirely familiar. It was a place he'd built himself, it was his sanctuary, it was his home that he carried everywhere.

His Mind Palace.

He took a quick inventory of himself. Or at least the body his mind had created inside itself to represent him. Something usual, a suit with his Belstaff, his skin unbroken, his leg not shot, his shoulder not bleeding, his ribs not broken. Much better.

Until he reminded himself that it was not that way on the outside. The last thing he remembered was Natasha's tear stained face, John's quick hands pressing gauze into his bloody body. That had hurt, putting it mildly.

He didn't hurt now. That was a welcome fact. But for some reason he couldn't figure out why he was conscious inside himself. There were vague things coming to his attention. He was dying. Tears, being shook, swearing, someone crying out in Russian.

 _I love you. I can't lose you. Just open your eyes. Just once. For me, come on. Please don't do this to me. Please. Please. Please..._

Sherlock wasn't sure he had a choice in the matter. He didn't want to die, no, he still had work to do. Cases to solve, a goddaughter to watch grow up, a best friend to spend time with, an exceptional woman to love.

But if he was here, he was going to die. It was obvious.

This must be the last little bit of his life clinging to something it couldn't have. A last chance to see what he loved, maybe? Before he faded from existence. Better than the pain that accompanied the consciousness, so he didn't mind. Tuning out the noise, he started walking slowly down the long hallway.

The sound of heels clicking quietly on the floor of his mind palace conveyed her presence. Round the corner towards the end of the hallway, she leaned against a wall, sporting a black coat, an unreadable expression, and a head of blood red hair.

Natasha extended a hand out towards him. "Come with me?"

"Always." Sherlock replied immediately. His hand reached for hers, grasping it. It was warm, soft, and he felt an instant comfort. "Where are we going?"

"Home," she said simply. "John's waiting and so am I..." Her brows furrowed slightly. "But you're slipping away."

"It was bound to happen," he replied. "I wasn't supposed to make it this long anyways. I should have died in Paris."

"I don't think you really believe that." Natasha pulled gently on his hand and brought him in for a soft kiss on the lips. "I'll prove it to you."

Sherlock wasn't too strict on himself at the moment, he was dying after all. His free hand went to cup her head, running long fingers through her red hair. "And how are you going to do that?"

"How about I show you?" Natasha brushed her lips against his one more. "Come on," she spoke as she pulled him with her down another corridor. "We don't have much time."

"No, we don't. I'm dying. There's only so much resisting of that concrete fact that one can do." Sherlock said as he followed. He still wouldn't take his eyes off of her though. He wanted her to be the last thing he saw.

"You're dying," she conceded as they walked past labeled doors. "But you're not dead yet, and if I'm the one you're seeing right now..." She stopped at a door marked 'John Watson' and leaned against the surface, bringing Sherlock close enough to kiss one more time. Her free hand closed around the door handle. "It means you intend to fight," she said against his lips, turning the knob a moment later and pulling him inside.

Sherlock let himself be pulled along. It was what his mind had created, after all. Logically, she was simply the embodiment of his survival instinct. The portion that made death one of the most frightening things for a being, the thing that had them fighting illogically against it, only to stay alive.

But all logical thoughts went away when the door opened. John Watson's room was huge, filled with mental pictures and notes. Unspoken words conveyed by looks. An unlikely friendship, both giving and taking and earning more than they both thought possible.

Sherlock kept a hold of Natasha's hand, not even stepping into the room, but just taking in as much as he could see. As much as he could remember. John, who was currently trying to bring him back, was everywhere. Sherlock's conductor of light. Sherlock's blogger and doctor. Sherlock's best friend when there was no one else. Sherlock's heart when he didn't have one.

Josina, almost three by now, and a beautiful blue eyed, blonde haired terror. Sherlock had hoped to teach her things. And Mary, John's wife, someone who'd be there for John, but would never replace Sherlock. Just like Natasha could not replace John.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. That was reason enough to fight.

He bowed his head for a moment. "I should…John needs me. But I'm not sure I can. I took inventory of my injuries."

"You've done the math," Natasha agreed. "Balance of probability is you're going to die, but you also know there is a chance. Small percentage, statistically speaking. Only 5% to 10% percent of patients survive cardiac arrest after attempted resuscitation, and the circumstances in your case are bound to bring those percentages down." She pulled him out of the room and closed the door. "Slim chance, but it exists."

Her heels were clicking at a faster pace now, once again flashing through labeled doors until they reached another marked 'Natalia Romanova'. Natasha reached for the knob without ceremony and slipped inside, casting her eyes around the room. "You and me, we thrive on slim chances," she spoke.

The room, like John's, was filled with mental pictures and notes. Scribbled promises of future meetings, sometimes coded and sometimes not. Deductions. Missions. Cases. Long talks in front of the fireplace. Passionate encounters after a successfully solved case or a finished mission. Gentle nights beneath the covers keeping nightmares at bay. Fervent declarations of love. Two years of memories, from a chance encounter in the streets of Paris to numerous others.

Theirs was a love of slim chances and statistical improbabilities. Two misunderstood personalities who found understanding in the other. Sherlock and Natasha. They didn't align like puzzle pieces, but their jagged edges fit perfectly. They challenged each other. They made each other better, sharper and quicker, but they also made each other human.

Natasha would never replace John, same as no one would replace Sherlock for her. The word came as if whispered from the walls. To her, he was _home_.

Deductions often surprised Sherlock. Sometimes the information was processed so quickly he didn't always understand it himself, least not right away. Everything about Natasha had been thrown into this room, and he'd spent time there in an attempt to understand her better.

But it wasn't until he was standing there, with his creation of her, minutes away from being lost, that it came together. Her need of him, and the _home_ he was. It was a comfort. Statistically improbable, for someone like him to be _that_ for someone else.

It was still true. For both Natasha and John. They needed him. They needed him alive. His death meant taking away home. Wasn't that reason enough to fight?

Sherlock was standing there, soaking in the information, the reminder. And then a jolt of electricity coursed through him. He gripped Natasha's hand, falling to his knees as the lightning shot around the room and through his physical representation. "What-?"

Natasha crouched in front of him and gently angled his head so she could meet his eyes. "You know what that is," she said calmly.

Sherlock pinched his eyes closed. It hurt again, he was coming back to the surface. Life hurt. More shouting echoed through his mind palace, John's distant voice. His eyes snapped open again, keeping focus on her. "A slim chance." He provided, smirking just a bit. "And if I don't get to tell you...I love you very much."

" _I love you too,_ " she replied in Russian and caught his lips in an echo of a real kiss, so amidst the pain it'd be the very last thing he felt.

Sherlock kissed her until the second course of electricity spread through him, the pain swallowing him up and pulling him out of his mind palace and out into the real world. He had a split second of awakeness and his eyes opened just briefly, but his broken body failed him and he slipped into a blissful painless unconsciousness.

It took another round of CPR, one more dose of epinephrine, and another shock before his heart started again. John's voice was too steady when he called out, fingers tight on the carotid artery. "We've got a pulse."

"Thank God," Steve breathed, relaxing only a fraction in his seat next to Natasha. Once they'd boarded transport, she'd remained silent and focused on only one thing. Even after John's announcement she didn't say a word, but her hands uncurled from the tight fists they'd been a second before. Etched into her palms were bloody half crescents from where her fingernails had been digging into her skin. Steve spoke to John. "That's good work."

"We're not…" John started, he kept his fingers on Sherlock's neck, waiting for any change in the weak heartbeat. "…out of the water just yet. His O2 stats are down, among other things…" his other hand was motioning for Bauer to turn up the oxygen and then reaching for another syringe. "ETA?"

Bauer did as instructed and then moved her attention to Sherlock's bleeding shoulder. She exchanged a few words with the copilot in German and then said to the rest of them in English, "we're about ten minutes away now. They know we're coming."

"Good." John breathed, glancing down at Sherlock's lax face. The bruises and abrasions were bad enough, without the bullet wound and the inch wide hole in his shoulder. But he was alive. He'd been through hell and survived.

The next ten minutes felt like an eternity. Sherlock's heart was beating, but he was still bleeding. Once they landed at the hospital, John accompanied the medical team inside, quickly relaying the information and what he'd done thus far. By the time it was all said and done, and Sherlock was wheeled away to surgery, John collapsed in a chair.


	41. Chapter 41

Natasha spoke very little in the thirty six hours that followed Sherlock's arrival at the hospital. She was checked for injuries and asked questions, but answered only with short sentences when nods wouldn't do. John took over informing the medical staff of Sherlock's medical history, but it was Natasha who took care of the rest. Like him when she'd been injured, she identified herself as his spouse and filled out paperwork under Steve's concerned gaze. She didn't withstand the scrutiny for long.

When he offered to help, she told him to go and find food and clothes for both John and herself. She was eventually allowed to bathe and change when Steve returned with her request. John followed suit. Steve being a super soldier with an international reputation, no one questioned his lack of injuries or his story when he met with the authorities to go over the details of what he was describing as a rescue. Steve had always been good at that sort of thing, a calmness borne of years spent under constant public scrutiny. Natasha and John were questioned after, but both their stories were vague and confirmatory of the one Steve had supplied. They were left alone soon after.

Natasha took it upon herself to call Mycroft for an update once they were left alone, while Steve took care of the extraction team and John paced the waiting room waiting from updates from the doctors. They were long hours spent drinking coffee and fighting off sleep. Steve and John by lapsing into quiet conversation, and Natasha by quietly brooding in a nearby chair. She was a closed shell and she would stay that way until Sherlock Holmes himself came back from the dead to pry her open.

Eventually the doctor came into the room with a nurse. The intensive care room was large with big sliding glass doors. John sat with Natasha while Steve was out getting them all food. The doctor, who was a familiar face by now, spoke to John, quickly letting him know what they were going to do. The doctor still had reiterated the possibility of brain damage, but John was confident there wouldn't be. A hopeful confidence as opposed to a logical one.

Sherlock had been on the ventilator since surgery, giving his tired lungs a bit of rest as his body healed. John watched closely. Soon Sherlock was extubated, taken off of sedation, and breathing on his own. It had been a relief, but not as much of a relief as when John's steady eyes caught sight of Sherlock moving not even an hour later.

"Thank God." He whispered, but didn't get up off the chair. He slouched and closed his eyes, sending a prayer to a deity he rarely acknowledged.

Natasha did get up, hurrying over to his bedside and reaching out to gently take his hand with a shaky sigh of relief. Her jumper was thick and oversized over her jeans and boots, so much so that the sleeve covered her hand and eventually Sherlock's. Her eyes never left his face, not even when she felt them sting and water the way they'd taken to doing since she'd found him beaten and broken.

Sherlock woke up from the weirdest dream, the time he'd been unconscious blurred together. It only felt like minutes since he forced his way out of his mind palace. But by the time his heavy eyes opened, he deduced it had been much longer. He focused in on the blurry redheaded figure above him, and flexed his hand in hers.

"Hey." He croaked.

"Hey," she replied, barely above a whisper, moving in to press a soft kiss to his forehead. "You scared me." She tangled the fingers of her free hand in his curls and closed her eyes with a quiet sniffle. She was shaking with emotion and couldn't find it in herself to stop. "I thought... _Bozhe moi_ , I thought..." She pulled back to meet his eyes, bloodshot and blue and alive. She withdrew her hand to furtively wipe her cheeks. "It was such a slim chance."

"We…thrive…on slim chances." Sherlock said quietly, willing himself to stay awake. He couldn't move, he was too tired. And something was holding his shoulder down. He wanted to hold her, reassure her, prove he was alive. Maybe later. "I love you."

"I love you too," Natasha said quickly. "And I'm not leaving your side, okay? I'm staying right here." She took his hand in both of hers and raised it to her lips.

"Not a problem." Sherlock said, his voice still rough, and unaware of John smiling from his chair across the room. "But I'mm going to sleep again…tired."

"Okay." Natasha leaned a bit against his bed without letting go of his hand, using the other to run through his curls until he drifted off. Sherlock Holmes, broken but alive.


	42. Chapter 42

Sherlock slept another six hours before he woke again, still slightly confused and foggy from the morphine drip. John slipped in on the other side of the bed, expression worried but relieved. Sherlock was alive, but John's main concern was his mental capacity. He'd been clinically dead for six minutes and thirteen seconds. But that was an average for a reason, and there was still a chance that damage could have occurred, especially due to Sherlock's physical state at the time. Brain scans had come back relatively normal, but that didn't mean they were cleared yet.

Aside from the destroyed shoulder and the bullet wound, he'd lost quite a lot of blood, which meant a few of his internal organs had suffered while the body had kept the brain alive during shock. All in all, Sherlock's recovery was going to be long and arduous.

When Sherlock did wake up, John ran through the usual questions. _What's your full name? Who am I? What's your address? A detail from the last case you solved? What country are you in?_ … Until he was sufficiently satisfied that Sherlock was in fact himself. The detective, of course, had answered everything with a tired snark that only he could do.

And it was only then that John finally broke down in a mix of swearing, tears, angry shouting, and utter relief. He hadn't stayed long, retorting something about needing air and leaving the room.

Steve had left for good shortly after, and he exchanged a short but meaningful conversation with Sherlock. The remaining three stayed in Bern seven days before they felt confident moving Sherlock back to London was a safe choice. He'd been up and down health-wise, between surgeries and infection. It was a long road ahead, and Sherlock did not make a good patient at all.

He was also stubborn, having refused to go to hospital in London (aside from the follow up with the specialist about his shoulder). He also refused another location, and insisted upon going home, despite the stairs.

Finally after the long afternoon of traveling, the private car sent by Mycroft Holmes pulled to a stop in front of 221B Baker street. Sherlock was home.

Mycroft had also provided any and all medical equipment that John would need, as well as the prescriptions already filled for Sherlock. That all aside, the first order of business was getting the detective up the stairs. This was also an arduous task, but soon Sherlock flopped onto his bed.

John stepped back, and heaved a heavy sigh. "I'm going to be back tomorrow, just make sure he follows my instructions…"

"I am right here, you needn't use 'he'." Sherlock quipped.

"…And call me if you need anything." John continued over him. He caught Natasha's eye and smiled slightly. "Meanwhile, I'm going to go see my wife and daughter. Thank you."

"Go." Natasha turned her eyes back to Sherlock and moved around the bed to sit on the opposite side. "I'll be right here and I'll call if anything happens," she promised. "Get some rest."

"You too. Doctors orders." John quipped with a fond smile, a moment later he turned down the hall and left 221B for home.

Sherlock used his free hand to reach for Natasha's, his injured left arm was in a sling and would likely stay that way over the coming weeks. He fixed silver eyes on her and said, "hey."

"Hey." Natasha took Sherlock's hand and turned it over to kiss the palm. Her eyes closed and her lips lingered while she took a moment to remind herself for what felt like the thousandth time that he was alive and safe. "You know I'm staying, don't you?" She spoke once she'd opened her eyes to meet his. "I'll be sticking around for a while if you don't mind."

"I don't mind, but you don't have to." He replied after a moment. "You have that…work thing. Saving the world and whatnot."

"I already talked to Steve," she assured him. "If I'm needed, he'll call me in. And even then, I'll be flying back here instead of New York when the job is through. I'm staying because I want to." She settled on her side beside him and took his hand in both of hers. "Do you need anything?"

"Hmm, no, I don't think so, not now." Sherlock said, turning his head to look at her. "Pain medication is making my brain fuzzy."

Natasha watched him silently for a long moment. "I was so scared I was going to lose you."

"I know, I heard you." He replied thoughtfully. "I'm still here."

"And I'm glad you are." Natasha smiled faintly, the first time in days. "I'm not ready to lose you just yet. As much as I know it's a possibility considering what we do." She reached out to lightly caress his cheek with her fingertips, mindful of his injuries. "I love you."

"I know that too." Sherlock said with tired smile. Considering the circumstances that nearly left him dead, he was feeling a bit vulnerable with the whole situation. "Thank you…for saving me."

Natasha shifted closer, still holding his gaze. Blue, soft and vulnerable as it was, it made her chest squeeze painfully. "Don't thank me for that," she told him quietly. "I'll always be there if you need me. Always."

"Even inside my head, you saved my life," he breathed. "I'm very glad we met. Unexpected results, but completely worthwhile."

"Completely worthwhile," Natasha agreed, swallowing against the sudden lump in her throat. "I'm in your head?"

Sherlock squeezed her hand, shifting to rest his forehead against hers. "Of course you are, have been for a while. Part of my mind palace."

Natasha moved closer still, slowly so she wouldn't jostle him on the bed too much. Her free hand sunk into his curls and she closed her eyes. "Did you see me? While you were..." She exhaled sharply, skirting away from the word. "Did you?"

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed an affirmative. He never discussed that aspect of his mind palace. Mycroft knew, then again he'd been the one to teach him. But he could trust her with himself, every part. "Many times over the three days. And then when I needed you most."

"I need you too," she admitted just barely above a whisper. "I can't remember if I've ever told you that, but I do. If I'd lost you…"

"I'd say you should just move on, but I've gone through the options if it was the other way around…" He trailed off, letting out a sigh. "I would want you to continue as best you could though."

"I would continue because I'd have no other choice," Natasha said honestly. "But moving on wouldn't be an option. I would be losing too much if I lost you. You're... my place, if that makes sense," she struggled to explain. "You're my home."

Sherlock tilted his head and brushed his bruised lips against hers. "It makes sense," he murmured. For it did, everything clicking into place for him. _Home._ She'd become his home too, and he was quite sure he didn't want to ever let her go. She was intriguing, and understood him, and rarely boring or annoying. He'd completely and accidentally fallen in love with her, as only he could. Pulling away to look at her, he opened his eyes and asked a question he'd never thought about asking honestly.

"Will you marry me?"

Natasha blinked at him in a way that was more characteristic of Sherlock when he was caught off guard. Briefly she wondered if maybe it was the pain medicine still making his head fuzzy, or simply the aftermath of a traumatic experience. Regardless, she already knew her answer.

"Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, if you're sure." She could adjust if he decided to backtrack. He had every right to change his mind. "I... wouldn't make a very good conventional wife. You know I can't have or want children. I'm not stable... but I love you, and if you're sure..." She paused uncertainly. "Are you sure?"

"I don't want a conventional wife. I don't want children. And I'm not stable either." Sherlock said, speaking faster than he had in awhile. "But we make each other better, challenge each other. I love you, and I have claimed you. It seems the logical course of action for those presented facts." He paused, studying her for deductions but coming up completely blank. And it wasn't due to the morphine. "Are _you_ sure?"

"I'm sure," Natasha answered quickly, leaving no room for doubt. "I'm positive. I feel the same way and it makes perfect sense. I actually thought about it back in Bern when I was filling in paperwork using the spouse cover..." Her lips spread in a slow smile and she moved in to very gently brush her lips against his, the promise of a proper kiss once he'd healed.

Sherlock wanted very much to take her and show her how much he loved her, but his transport wasn't going to let him. He smiled against her, commenting quietly, " _tease._ " He pulled back again, blinking a couple times, drinking her in. "How do you feel about honeybees?"

"Surprisingly complex for such tiny things," Natasha replied with a curious smile. "Love the honey and love the beeswax, both are incredibly practical." She paused. "Why?"

"Retirement. Still a ways away but practical to think about and plan for." Sherlock replied with a fond smile. "Since we're getting married and all."

Natasha's smile turned soft. "Smart," she agreed. "Do you mind if we keep the actual wedding small?"

"Actually I would prefer that, close friends and family only." Sherlock shifted slightly on the bed with a slow release of breath at the transport that wasn't working right. "We don't have many friends anyways."

"I like it that way." Natasha raised herself up a little from her pillow when he moved. "Do you need help?"

"Got any advanced alien healing devices hidden somewhere?" Sherlock quipped tiredly. "This is already getting tiresome."

"Not really," Natasha replied with a quiet laugh. "But I could always talk to Dr. Cho and see where she's at with the Cradle. Not sure about the rest of your injuries, but your shoulder at least could be taken care of in a couple hours." She sat up completely to look at him. "Ready for sleep? I'll help you get comfortable."

"Hmmm, yeah. Can't seem to stay awake." Sherlock said, catching her eye again after a long blink. "Love you."

"Love you too." Natasha pressed a soft kiss to his lips and pulled back to help him get comfortable, as promised. Eventually they settled into a position where his arm and leg weren't as much of a nuisance, and she could run her fingers in a soothing rhythm through his curls. Only then did she relax and close her eyes, the faintest of smiles ghosting over her lips. She didn't bother changing out of her jeans and sweater, she could feel exhaustion weighing her down along with him. Sleep found them quickly.


	43. Chapter 43

Sherlock was not an easy patient, especially as John started weaning him off of the morphine. Two weeks after his rescue, the morphine was gone. Sherlock was relying solely on pills for pain management and had reached a new level of grumpiness.

That transition is difficult enough, made more so by the fact of Sherlock's past drug use. He was restless, but couldn't move quickly. Bored, but couldn't get any relief. Between cracked ribs, his still healing thigh, the shoulder wound, and the bruises and abrasions he was uncomfortable as well. All coupling into the fact that Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than a very grumpy child at the moment.

John had just left after getting snapped at one too many times, offering a snap in return and an apologetic look for Natasha.

Sherlock lay on the couch, one arm in a sling and the other crossed over it. He huffed out his nose and pouted for a good ten minutes after John's departure until he declared, "I want a cigarette."

Natasha Romanoff was a very patient woman. Not meek or submissive, but patient. Just one of the many skills needed to do her job properly, and she'd found more than a few trying personalities during her time in the field.

Sherlock was obviously different. For one thing, she didn't care an inch about her marks but loved Sherlock with every bit of herself and then some. For another, she'd been with Sherlock round the clock, whereas her marks never took up as much of her time except for rare occasions. All in all, she wasn't just weathering a trying personality. She was weathering the trying personality of the man she loved. It made the task simpler and more complicated in equal measure. Still, her face and tone always remained serene, even the few times Sherlock had snapped at her.

She'd been busy researching weddings in general on her laptop when her attention was abruptly pulled away by Sherlock's request. She looked up and peered at him over the top of the screen. She knew there was a stash and knew where it was, but she'd been specifically asked not to give into this request. Still, she wasn't exactly above breaking the rules under the right circumstances.

"John said not to give you one," she said simply.

"John's not here." Sherlock retorted. He sighed and turned his head, his face slipping into more of a pleading look. "Please, I need one."

Natasha bit back a smile. "Manipulation attempts? Is that what we've come to?"

"Apparently." Sherlock sighed and turned his head back to stare at the ceiling. He then pushed himself up to sitting with a quiet groan. "Where are they?"

"You know I'm not telling you unless you give me a compelling reason," Natasha replied, closing her laptop halfway.

Sherlock shifted his legs over the side of the couch and gave her a look. "Because I asked nicely? I've been told that's important. Please can you tell me?"

"Not now," she said firmly. "Have you checked your email? No cases you can solve from the comfort of your chair?"

"My chair is not comfortable at the moment." He huffed out his nose and stood up with some effort. "I solved them already." He limped towards the kitchen. "I'm _dying_ of boredom, I _need_ something."

Closing her laptop completely, Natasha set it aside and padded into the kitchen after him. "Alright, so what about an experiment? The scientific kind."

"Dull. Did that yesterday." Sherlock droned as he started searching through the pantry. "And the day before."

Natasha settled her hands on her hips and fixed her eyes on his back. "Your stash is not in the pantry," she informed him. "Do you want a shot at some intel I gathered, then?" She continued. "It's mostly scattered bits and pieces of information but I haven't been able to make much sense of it yet."

"Sounds good, you can read it to me as I search." Sherlock said distractedly, moving on from the pantry to the other cupboards.

"The point is to _dissuade_ you of your search," she replied, pausing while she made a decision and turning to retrieve her laptop anyway. "Tell you what. Sit down and I'll let you have one, since you'll be so kind as to help me out with work. Two birds, one stone," she said once she'd returned and settled into a chair at the kitchen table. "You get to smoke and you get to busy your mind with something interesting. Win win."

Sherlock turned to look at her suspiciously, trying to decide if she was joking or not. Eventually he nodded his head and closed the cupboard. "Okay. Just one, I promise."

"Okay." Natasha brought up the bits of intel she'd gathered up on her screen and rose so he could take up her chair. "Sit."

Turning away, she padded back into the living room and moved Sherlock's chair so she could reach the topmost ledge of his bookshelf. Behind a few stacked books, she reached in and pulled out a box of cigarettes.

Sherlock watched her out of the corner of his eyes, frowning slightly at the hard to reach place. A second later he turned his attention to the information in front of him. A terrorist group had caught someone's eye, but Natasha was right, the intelligence they'd gathered was scattered. Random. And incomplete. But he was Sherlock Holmes, albeit a diminished version of himself with a transport that didn't work and a brain that was racing into overdrive. Still, his mind latched onto the information and spun it around. He held out his hand just as she was coming closer with the promised cigarette and started speaking very quickly. "Got it. They're funding organizations that employ people they need for their own intelligence. Except working under what is assumed to be donations, these individuals do not realize what is going on. That's why you're having a hard time tracking the source of the information, it's coming from multiple sources who are unaware of the bigger picture. It's obvious by the logo and location and color of the president's tie. Can I have the cigarette now?"

Natasha lit the cigarette first and took a bit of a drag herself before she passed it along. As she did, she leaned down to kiss his cheek. "Thank you." Reaching over his shoulder, she closed her laptop and moved away to open the window behind the kitchen sink to let out the smoke. "I think I can take care of that from here, if that's the case. I've got a contact in the city."

Sherlock took a drag on the cigarette and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "I'm inclined to say 'thank God' because then someone else would have to come babysit me. I'd rather it be you."

"Why?" Natasha's tone turned teasing. "Because I give in to your cigarette demands?" She returned to the table and pulled out a second chair for herself, sporting a faint smile. "I'm not giving you another."

"I'll find it next time. Could make a game of it, even." Sherlock said casually, loosely holding the cigarette between two fingers. He was quiet a moment as he inhaled it again, letting the nicotine course through his system. "Anyways, to answer your question, I'd rather you or John, over Mrs Hudson and Mycroft. Less annoying rambles and condescending remarks."

"Speaking of which," Natasha said. "What did John say earlier when he was checking in on you and you weren't snapping at him?"

"Something about wanting to knock me out." Sherlock stated thoughtfully. "Then something about Josi wanting to see me. And then something about resting and not pushing myself. And there may have been a couple swear words mixed in there, I can't remember."

"You do seem to bring out that side of him when you're grumpy," Natasha replied with a bemused half smile. "You do also need to rest, but I know you don't sit well. So what are the options? Mrs. Hudson has asked, very nicely, for me to keep you from shooting the wall."

"I'm not grumpy." Sherlock protested childishly. "I'm bored, and I've got weeks and weeks of this to go." He pointed at her with the cigarette. "And no promises about shooting the wall, I have my ways."

"I am all too aware," she assured him. "Short of me tying you to the bed, I doubt I'll be able to keep you from damaging the wall for very long." She stood to retrieve a small plate and set it down on the table near him to serve as an ashtray. "We'll find some way to keep you occupied."

"Wedding planning or something. I'm very good at that. I've done it once." Sherlock said matter of factly.

Natasha tipped her head, considering him anew, and a slow smile spread across her face. "For John and Mary's wedding?"

"Yep, loads of fun. Probably should tell people, or something too. Isn't that what people do?"

She turned her eyes to her closed laptop and splayed her hand on top. "It is what people do, I think. I'm planning on telling Steve and Clint as soon as I go back to New York and we have a set date." She paused. "I was actually researching that sort of thing while John was checking up on you, but my experience is... limited."

"Naturally." Sherlock said, setting the new finished cigarette on the plate and leaning forward. "We'll first need to decide location as well as the date."

"Location," Natasha repeated. "Either here in London or in New York, it doesn't make a difference to me. Tony will insist on flying people both ways anyway." She lapsed into thoughtful silence. "If left up to me, I'd marry you as soon as you're feeling better."

"So a month or two? That's fine. Would you like to do a sex holiday? I'll have to plan that." Sherlock asked, all very quickly. "And buy rings. We can do that as soon as I can walk longer distances."

"Then it's a date" Natasha smiled. "Sex holiday. Like a honeymoon? Yeah, I think we'd be able to get away with disappearing for a few days. I certainly wouldn't mind having you all to myself." Her smile grew. "I'm assuming it's not acceptable to bring you with me when I go dress shopping? Tradition, or some such nonsense."

"Wedding tradition, because we don't have enough of that already." Sherlock quipped. "Never been one for tradition. Location, there are several places here in London that would suffice, and as you've spent more time here than I have in New York, it may be fitting to pick a place here."

"Then maybe we can draw up a list and go through it?" Natasha suggested.

"Hmm, yep. That would probably work." He replied. "Sex holiday, somewhere warm and unfamiliar?"

"Warm, unfamiliar and preferably near the water," Natasha answered. "Tea?"

"Yes please." Sherlock said with a momentary pause, he then smirked. "I might need to shelve the bikini for good if we're going on holiday."

Natasha leaned across the bit of table between them to catch his lips in a kiss. "Very funny," she told him with a half smile as she stood to prepare the tea. "We'll both wear bikinis. We'll be a matching set."

"Battle scars and all." Sherlock commented, leaning back in his chair to observe her. "Could have been worse, I suppose. I match John now."

"That it could've been worse is not a supposition, it's a certainty," Natasha replied. "Your heart did stop, in case you've decided to delete that bit of information."

"No, I remember. Vaguely." He replied quickly. "I like to defy the odds, and we do like slim chances."

"You said it best. We thrive on them." Natasha snuck a quick look at him over her shoulder as she set the kettle to boil. "Scars are a good reminder... both yours and mine." She leaned against the counter, hands braced against the lip, and smiled again. "So bikinis for both?"

"In your dreams." He quipped. "Might just skip the suit altogether if I can find something remote enough."

"Now that _is_ something I can get completely on board with," she said cheekily. "Dreams don't compare to the real thing."

"No, they don't." Sherlock said, his own smile fond as he looked her over, appreciating the mental challenge of her again. His next statement was entirely random if one wasn't in his head. "I never asked why you kissed me, that day in France."

"They very first time?" Natasha tipped her head thoughtfully. "Would you like me to tell you now?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered both questions. "It did bring us to this point, planning an event I was never expecting to plan for myself."

Natasha's expression turned soft as she studied him, thoughts drifting back to those early days in Paris. "Before you, I'd spent... years avoiding that sort of contact with anyone. Since before joining S.H.I.E.L.D., actually. I've told you about the Red Room and the sort of missions they had me do on occasion. When I defected, I wasn't ready to open up to anyone that way... and, after a while, it stopped being a question of whether or not I was ready, and became a question of whether or not I wanted to. The truth is, I didn't." She paused. "While I was with you in Paris... I don't know, I suppose I felt we were similar. I felt understood. Seen, if that makes sense. And for the first time in a very long time... I wanted to." She met his eyes with a faint smile and turned to retrieve two cups. "Too much of a ramble?"

"Not at all." Sherlock replied right away, lapsing into a thoughtful second before he replied. He gave her a meaningful look, the actions speaking more than the response he wasn't sure how give. "Thank you. I'm…glad you did."

"I'm glad I did too," she said with quiet sincerity. "Now it's your turn," she added with a bit more volume. "Why did you go along with it? If you'd said no, I would've stopped immediately."

"I thought about it," Sherlock said honestly. "But at that moment in time, it wasn't going to be a distraction from my work or dim my mental capacity. You saved my life, and were interesting enough to capture my attention from day one. Besides…I was curious."

Natasha's lips lifted at the corner. "Curious about what? Giving that particular activity a shot with me? Or giving that activity a shot with someone who captured your attention in general?"

"With you. It's not common, but there have been people who have captured my attention before." Sherlock clarified. "I mean, I hadn't really thought about it until right that moment, too many years locking that desire away. I'd only partaken in that activity once before."

"Was it a good experience or a bad experience? And that's a question you're in no way obligated to answer," Natasha felt the need to add. "Wedding or no wedding, your past is your own."

Sherlock paused, going through the options whether or not he wanted to answer. "Considering I was high at the time, I'm probably obligated to say bad. But it was educational. I decided it wasn't something I wanted, and moved on."

"Then I'm glad you decided to try again with me." Natasha gave him a meaningful look reminiscent of the one he'd given her just a moment ago, walking over to capture his lips in a kiss. "I love you."

Sherlock rested his free hand on her hip and smiled softly up at her. "I know. I love you too, all of you."

Natasha kissed his lips one more time in silent agreement and then the tip of his nose. "Tea," she said, more as a reminder to herself than anything else, and reluctantly moved away from him to prepare both their cups. She set his down in front of him and settled into her chair with her own. "I should also tell you, you're the first man I've shared a bed with while sleeping. It was a bit of a new experience for me."

"Hm? And we'd only just met, aside from knowing each other by reputation." He smiled just a bit as he picked up his cup of tea. "I knew I got attached quickly when someone is worth my time, but it appears you did as well."

Natasha exhaled a laugh. "Well, we know you and I have more similarities than we do differences," she agreed. "And that was the best night's sleep I'd gotten in a year."

"Me too." Sherlock said thoughtfully. He reached to fiddle with his sling for a moment. "You're always around when I need you."

Natasha's green eyes followed the movement and her thoughts drifted to her own scars, the ones faded but present on her stomach. "You're always around when I need you too," she said seriously. "Good thing we plan on it being that way for a good long while..." Her lips twitched up at the corner. "For better or worse."

"For better or worse." Sherlock repeated, glancing up at her. He gave her a smile and then reached for his tea again. "Could be dangerous."

Natasha's smirk widened into a full blown smile. "I'm counting on it."


	44. Chapter 44

Natasha left 221B a couple of days after her talk with Sherlock to meet with her London contact and relay the information her husband-to-be had gleaned from the bits of intel she'd shown him. It was during this time that Mycroft Holmes decided to pay his brother a visit. Something he'd been meaning to do since Sherlock's arrival in London but had only managed to get around to after more than a week had passed. Knowing his brother was alive, well cared for, and now under heavy surveillance, had been more than enough for him for a while, but eventually the need to confirm it with his own eyes had won out.

He climbed the steps to his brother's flat dressed in his usual three-piece suit and carrying his ever present umbrella, all while sporting the carefully detached expression he'd perfected after years and years of facing his brother following days of constant worry. It wasn't the first, and certainly wouldn't be the last, time he'd feared for his brother's life. It just so happened that this time had been considerably more stressful than all the rest, thanks in large part to the circumstances surrounding it. He blamed himself for those circumstances, but then he blamed himself for all his brother's brushes with death.

"Brother mine," he greeted once he'd entered and graced the living room with the customary keen-eyed inspection. "I trust your recovery is moving along?"

Sherlock was splayed on the couch, a book open but face down on his abdomen. He tilted his head to look over his guest. "About as slowly as one would expect." He said, making a bit of a face as he pushed himself to sitting up. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"Isn't the social convention to visit when one's brother comes back from his latest brush with death?" Mycroft sat on the chair beside the door and set down his umbrella, unbuttoning his suit coat. "How are you?"

"Alive." Sherlock said, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch to sit like an adult. He adjusted his sling and then turned eyes towards his brother. "Completely and utterly bored, but otherwise fine."

"Good," he replied in a clipped tone. "Next time I trust you'll, at the very least, let _someone_ know where you're going before you decide to leave London?"

"And there it is." Sherlock let out a sigh. "Shall I expect this lecture to continue? It was _supposed_ to be a straightforward case. That's what I do, I solve cases."

"I am aware," Mycroft said dryly. "If, however, you had told someone, if not myself then John, about where you were headed, it might've made the entire rescue attempt easier." He fixed his brother with a pointed look. "I will stop the lecture only if you've learned your lesson."

"I think dying and being brutally tortured for three days did the trick, thank you very much." Sherlock quipped back, meeting the look with a defiant one of his own.

"Good," he retorted. "And how is your resident spy treating you? Hasn't run away after catching a glimpse of your less than amiable mood, has she?"

"No….She's fine, she's currently finishing a mission here in the city." Sherlock replied, narrowing his eyes slightly. "She's doing really well with my 'less than amiable moods'. Surprised?"

"Perhaps a bit, but then I have a hard time predicting the woman's behavior in general," Mycroft replied. "Good for you, brother dear." He flashed a polite smile. "Shall I make tea? I assume there's a pair of clean teacups in your kitchen somewhere."

"If you're intending to stay, tea would be appreciated." Sherlock said lightly, despite the snark, he was grateful for the company. "There should be something clean, Mrs Hudson was here…I think."

"The world can keep turning without me for the time being." Mycroft rose from his chair. "Besides," he added once he'd entered the kitchen. "You want me here."

"Next time I'll try not to be so obvious." He pushed himself up with a groan, had to make sure Mycroft didn't mess any of his current experiments up. "Don't touch my microscope."

"Then don't leave it lying around," Mycroft retorted in a disapproving tone. "I was half expecting you to deny wanting me here," he continued. "I'm suddenly filled with brotherly sentiment."

"Really? You're slipping. Should probably start a war or something tonight, shake that weakness off before anyone notices." Sherlock said, limping over to his chair so he could watch Mycroft. He settled in it with a huff of air. "Besides, I died, no point in denying anything at the moment."

"Sound reasoning, I'm sure," Mycroft replied. "And the next war is not scheduled until later this year, which I'm sure is of no concern to you aside from what it'll do to traffic."

"I suppose not." Sherlock was silent a moment while Mycroft readied the tea, fidgeting with his working hand as his eyes scanned his living room. "Natasha and I are getting married." He said casually.

Mycroft very nearly spilled boiling hot water on his immaculate suit at his brother's announcement. "Is this you attempting humor? It doesn't suit you. We've discussed it."

"I'm not joking." Sherlock said, raising a brow at Mycroft's reaction. "We're getting married. It seemed a logical next step, considering."

Mycroft set the kettle down and turned to study his brother, considering his decision for the very first time. It wasn't something he'd had the foresight to anticipate, but upon further analysis it did indeed seem like the logical next step. Sherlock wouldn't have entered and kept a relationship like the one he'd entered into and kept with Natasha if he didn't plan on committing to it long term. Such was his brother's nature. Nothing he ever did was done halfway. Natasha was still something of a mystery to him, but he could surmise that was part of her allure from Sherlock's perspective. Mycroft's suspicions of her aside, she'd consistently gone to his brother's aid without question and was currently staying with him to help his recovery. Not to mention the years of proof that lay behind her, as far as her feelings for his brother were concerned. For her, it seemed, nothing she did was done halfway either. He could, for once, accept the news without having to prod and question his brother.

"Well I suppose congratulations are in order then," he finally spoke. "When do you plan on telling Mummy? I'm sure she'll barely be able to contain herself."

"I was working up to that." Sherlock said. "Probably when I look healthier than half dead. You didn't tell them the extent of the trouble I went through, I'm sure, no sense in worrying them unnecessarily." He waved that off with his free hand. "You will be there, by the way, especially if Mummy has anything to say about it. I'm also going to need use of that private island in the Caribbean as well for a few days following."

"Fine," Mycroft replied. "I'll need to know the date you plan on flying out there so I can call ahead and have the staff ready the house for you. I will... make an appearance at the wedding, if need be." He made a little grimace at what was sure to be a tedious ceremony and turned back to continue with the tea. "How long until the happy day?"

"We're thinking beginning of April, so just a couple months. Basically when I'm recovered from this. No sense in waiting." Sherlock said. "And I'm quite certain you won't be bored, so don't make that face."

Mycroft scoffed. "Have you decided where you'd like the ceremony to take place?" He continued. "I could secure any location in London for you."

"I know. We're still narrowing it down, but I'll let you know as soon as possible." Sherlock said professionally.

Finally finished with the tea, Mycroft turned to set a cup down in front of his brother and settled into another chair with his own. "I suppose this is the moment when I tell you I am happy for you."

"No sense lying, brother dear." Sherlock said, bringing the tea cup to his lips.

"For once, I'm not lying," Mycroft told him seriously. "I am happy for you. For many reasons, but the most important of which is..." The next was an attempt of humor delivered with a straight face. "Mummy will no longer feel the need to pressure me into making a similar commitment."

Sherlock huffed in amusement and set his teacup down before he spilt it. "And here I'd thought she'd given up hope on you years ago."

"Not at all," Mycroft assured him with an amused huff of his own. "Our mother's determination knows no limits. Now, hopefully, your wedding will divert that energy elsewhere."

"Unlikely, if she's that determined on an otherwise lost cause, I doubt you're off the hook." Sherlock said with a bit of a smirk. "You're still her only hope for a grandchild."

"Am I? That's unfortunate," Mycroft sighed. "She's bound to be disappointed." He took a delicate sip of his tea. "So am I the first you've told the news to?"

"Actually yes, you should feel honored or something." He waved dismissively and continued. "I was hoping to tell John next, need to text him."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to hear of it," Mycroft replied. "And I assume, of course, you'll be making him your best man."

"I'm told that's what best friends are required to do at this sort of event." Sherlock said, taking a delicate sip of tea.

"It is not, I believe, strictly limited to best friends," Mycroft commented. "But yes, it does seem appropriate in this case."

"Brothers too, from what I've read." He replied casually and then flashed a petulant smile. "Thank you for your interest, I'll get back to you."

"Are you dismissing me already?" Mycroft gave his brother a look over the rim of his cup. "At the very least allow me to finish my tea."

"No, I'm not. My dismissals are usually much more dramatic, and I am sure I can find a way to do that in my current condition."

"You think so, do you? I'm almost tempted to come up with a rebuttal, but I know you'd take it as a challenge," Mycroft replied. "And I've been informed you need your rest."

"I need my sanity too. Returning to normal behavior is the best way to ensure that."

"And that normal behavior entails you dismissing me with a flourish? I won't stand for it," Mycroft scoffed, but there was no bite to his words.

"Obviously, you'll be walking away instead." Sherlock replied in much the same manner. Two idiot genius who couldn't admit they cared about each other.

"Highly amusing, brother mine," Mycroft said lightly as he finished the bit of tea left in his cup and set it down.

Sherlock was quiet a few moments, and then looked up from his tea cup at his brother. "I'm guessing a 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss….so thank you. For your part in my rescue."

"Well, I wouldn't have heard the end of it from Mummy if I'd simply allowed you to disappear," Mycroft replied. "Of course, you also know, I wouldn't be able to stand your... loss." He cleared his throat. "I did what I could."

"The helicopter was a nice touch." Sherlock commented casually. "Anyways, I suppose I was half expecting to see you storming in after me, right next to Captain America."

"I would've been a nuisance if they'd taken me with them," Mycroft replied. "I'm well aware of my limits, and fieldwork is not my milieu. As you well know. I've only dabbled in it on rare occasions."

"Naturally." Sherlock said evenly. "Nor did you need to be there. I appreciate your part in it anyways. And I promise no more traveling abroad without letting someone know."

Mycroft didn't smile, but the expression on his face softened just a bit. "I'd appreciate that," he said honestly. "And I suppose that means I can ease up on the surveillance I've been keeping you under."

"I can speak for us both when I say we'd appreciate it." Sherlock replied, glancing at the living room briefly before returning back to his brother. "Domestic bliss and all that entails."

"I'm sure," Mycroft replied with a brief look at the living room of his own before he stood and buttoned his suit coat. "Give my regards and congratulations to Natasha when she returns?"

"Of course." Sherlock said with a brief smile that was less sarcastic and more genuine. He didn't move to get up. "Until next time."

Mycroft returned his brother's smile before he swept into the living room to retrieve his umbrella. He climbed down the stairs at his usual pace, and called over his shoulder. "See you soon, Sherly."


	45. Chapter 45

Natasha decided she'd tell Clint and Steve her news over the phone. Sherlock was still recovering and she could work from London, so it made very little sense to fly over for a simple chat. She'd also made an appointment with a recommended apiculturist in London to purchase part of her wedding gift for Sherlock. A well preserved and glass encased African honey bee, as well as a few leather bound tomes on apiculture itself.

The tomes were in circulation, but she wanted their leather jackets to match. Three books in total, housed in supple chocolate brown leather that would last, with titles embossed in gold on their covers. Those had been relatively easy to acquire, but the bee had proved a little trickier. The species was being threatened in its natural habitat, and keeping it alive rather than preserving it seemed to be the method most apiculturists preferred. But she couldn't very well acquire the live bee just yet. Sherlock said beekeeping was a retirement plan, and she wanted her wedding gift to be a promise of that future. Something to say, beyond ceremonies and rings, that she was in it for the long haul.

So a preserved bee, rather than a live one, made more practical sense. Eventually she found an apiculturist who could provide her with one and made an appointment with her to see it.

She slipped out of 221B early that morning to meet with her London contact first, and she'd told Sherlock as much. She didn't tell him about the rest, but she had a plan to misdirect his deductions when she returned. She wanted him to be surprised, eventually, when she gave him his gift.

Her first call came about on the cab ride after her meeting with her first contact, on her way to her favorite café where she'd meet the apiculturist. Layla was her name. A woman with dark brown hair, quick honey brown eyes, and a warm smile. Natasha considered briefly setting her up with Greg Lestrade.

Clint picked up on the third ring. "Hey," he answered quickly. "Everything okay? Steve told me what happened."

"Yeah," Natasha replied. "Everything's okay. Sherlock's recovering. I'm staying over while does but I'll be back, eventually."

He breathed out. "Good." His voice sounded less tense. "Because you scared the crap out of him, you know that? He said—"

"Lecture your kids, Clint," Natasha interrupted. "Not me."

"Fine," he conceded and waited for her to get to her point, knowing full well she must've had one to call.

"I'm getting married," she told him evenly.

Clint barked a laugh and a shuffling noise drifted down the line. He was adjusting his phone against his ear. Natasha turned her eyes out the window and sighed.

"Alright, I'm going need you to repeat that," he announced. "Because it sounded like you said you were getting married."

"I am," she replied. "That's what I said." She paused when he went silent, but after a beat pressed on. "To Sherlock, and here in London. Beginning of April, hopefully. Just family and friends, or his family and friends and my friends, to keep it small. Do _not_ tell Tony yet. I'm calling Pepper first so she can put a leash on him early on." She paused again. "Say something?"

"Who's your maid of honor?" Clint asked seriously. "Or no, better yet, who's walking you down the aisle? Do not say Steve or I swear—"

Natasha bit back a smile. "No one's walking me down the aisle," she informed him. "I think I can make the walk all by myself without assistance."

"Still, the giving away," Clint insisted. "It's tradition."

"Mm," she hummed in disapproval. "Tradition or not, no one's giving me away like I'm a thing instead of a person."

"Fine, then what about the maid of honor thing?" Clint continued.

"Pepper, probably." The cab pulled to a stop and Natasha leaned forward to pay the cabbie and climb out, phone pinched between her shoulder and cheek while she retrieved her purse. "Why? Were you hoping for a pretty dress?"

"No!" Clint answered too quickly. "Just curious." He paused. "Congrats, Nat. I'm really happy for you. For both of you."

"Thanks." Natasha waved at Layla across the street when the cab disappeared, and looked both ways to cross. "Clint, I have to go. Don't tell Steve yet. I'm calling him later."

"No promises," was the last she heard before she ended the call and tucked the phone into her pocket.

Natasha's meeting with Layla lasted just about an hour. Layla provided her with both the bee and the books for her inspection, and Natasha had assured her they were to her liking and that her fiancé would love them. They chatted for a short while after while they finished their tea and assortment of macarons, and then went their separate ways. Natasha had one more stop to make before she went back to 221B.

She bought two additional boxes of macarons to take home with her, one of which would go to Mrs. Hudson, and hailed another cab. She called Steve on the cab ride to her London safe house where she'd be storing Sherlock's gifts.

Steve answered on the first ring. "Nat," he greeted.

"Steve," she replied and jumped straight to the point. "I've got some news."

"Figured," he laughed quietly. "Texts are more your thing."

"I'm getting married," she told him in the same even tone she'd told Clint. "Beginning of April, hopefully. And here in London."

"Congratulations are in order, then," Steve replied, and Natasha could hear the smile in his voice. "Does this mean you'll be laying off the matchmaking for the next couple of months? Because Sam is just about ready to throw in the towel."

Natasha exhaled a laugh. "Not a chance. Sherlock's better at this wedding planning stuff than I am. I'll still have enough free time to hound him. It's actually going to be a great opportunity for him to meet Molly. I'm going to ask Sherlock to sit them at the same table."

"Relentless," Steve deadpanned. "I'm glad you're doing this," he continued. "You and Sherlock, you both deserve a win."

"Thanks." Natasha eyed the two bags beside her and let out a relieved sigh. "Don't tell—"

"Tony, I know," Steve replied. "Otherwise he'll hijack the wedding. I thought about that too."

Natasha smiled. "Alright, then I'll call you soon," she replied.

"I'm holding you to that," Steve retorted, and a second later they both hung up.

Natasha tucked her phone away for a second time and rode the rest of the way in silence, mentally mapping out the next few calls she'd need to make and in what order. Pepper would have to be next if she wanted any sort of control exerted over Tony, but the rest could wait.

Her cab pulled up in front of her safe house a while later and she asked the cabbie to wait while she took up one of the bags—the larger one housing Sherlock's gifts—and exchanged it for another, this one a collection of rare poisons she'd promised Sherlock during her recovery and hadn't had a chance to deliver. It'd keep him busy for a while at least.

Between the poisons and the macarons, she figured she had a fairly good cover for visiting her favorite café and her safe house. Whatever time was leftover could be accounted for with the meeting with her contact, so she wasn't all that worried he'd figure it out. Of course, she couldn't know, but that was half the fun of the game they played.

And likely would continue playing for the rest of their lives. The idea made her smile.


	46. Chapter 46

Once Mycroft had left, Sherlock moved to his chair to sit in quiet thought. Naturally and due to the confining quality of his current situation, the quiet thought hadn't lasted long. He whipped out his phone. Time to stop delaying the inevitable. He typed out a text as quickly as one could with only one hand, and sent it to John.

 _I need you at Baker Street now. -SH_

 _Everything okay? I'll be right there. -JW_

 _ASAP -SH_

The response came almost immediately, but it was a good twenty minutes before the familiar tread and breathing pattern of one Doctor John Watson ascended the stairs. He burst through the door, blue eyes scanning the kitchen and then the living room. "Are you alright? Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, I want to talk." Sherlock said evenly, looking John up and down. "It's not too much trouble is it?"

John let out a sigh, because he'd done this sort of thing a hundred times already, and moved to take off his coat and sit down in his chair. "I was halfway through Josi's favorite book, but no problem. Mary was home to finish."

"Good. I have a question." Sherlock said, as if it was something entirely casual. He was almost looking forward to this. But with all his deductions, he wasn't sure he could possibly predict John's exact reaction. It wasn't every day one told their best friend they were getting married.

"Okay." John said, settling his arms on the arm rests.

Sherlock looked away, debating the method of going about this. He turned back to meet John's eyes and cleared his throat. "So…best man?"

John tilted his head and furrowed his brow. "Best man? Like who do I think is the best man? Present company excluded, I'd probably say Steve Rogers because rescuing you was not easy-"

"No, no, that's not what I meant." Sherlock interrupted with a wave of his free hand, annoyed that John hadn't gotten it.

"Then what did you mean? Is this for a case?"

Sherlock shook his head and tried again. "I need a best man."

"Why would you need a best man, that makes no sense unless you…" John trailed off as it hit him and his jaw dropped. Doctor John Watson had been rendered speechless. Not that Sherlock was complaining.

"Take your time." Sherlock said casually, tapping his fingers on the arm rest as he waited. "I'm not going anywhere."

It took just a bit more time for John's brain to catch up. His louder than conventionally acceptable tone conveyed both enthusiasm and disbelief. "What?! You're getting married?"

"That would be the reason I need a best-"

This time John interrupted. "Wait, wait, wait, what? You're getting married. You. Sherlock Holmes...getting married."

"I believe I was just trying to say that-"

"Who?"

"Natasha, obviously."

"Right, of course, stupid question.…when did this-"

"I asked her last week when we returned from Switzerland."

"So when-"

"First weekend in April, we're still narrowing down locations."

"Why-?"

"Because we can, and it's the most logical next step, isn't it?"

"Is it going to-"

"No, it's going to be quite small. Nearly considered just signing papers and running off on holiday, but I think a small ceremony will be appropriate."

"And what about chil-"

"No, we're still not having children. It's not like this is a traditional sort of marriage, we're still doing what we've always done. Just making a few legal changes, wearing rings, and taking a holiday that doesn't involve a mission. It's not that big a deal. Really."

"Stop answering my questions before I ask them." John retorted, but his smile was wide. "What ever happened to 'married to your work?'"

"I'm still married to my work, but Natasha's not a distraction. She's...an enhancement." Sherlock said, having gone through any and all arguments against his decision. "And I am, last I remember, allowed to change my mind. It just took the...the right person to come along."

John's wide smile softened and he shook his head. "Seriously though, you're getting married? This isn't just some joke weaved by your bored case-less mind?" That was most definitely an affectionate tease.

"Yes, I'm getting married." Sherlock said, this time he couldn't hide the smile that was growing on his face. "And I need a best man."

"That's what best friend's do, right?"

"So I've been told. It's either you or Mycroft, and you know my brother's not too fond of standing in front of people." Sherlock leaned back in his seat. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I'll be the best man at your _wedding_." John grinned and leaned back in his chair. "Not exactly something I ever expected to say."

"Nor was it something I was planning on asking."

"One thing leads to another…so wait. After dying and coming back to life, spending a week in hospital, and then returning to London on strong pain medication, you asked Natasha Romanoff to marry you. And she said yes."

"Yes." Sherlock drew out the vowel. "It was a bit spur the moment, but it seemed a good a time as any."

John scoffed. "Not exactly the most romantic sort of proposal, but I'm not surprised for the two of you. It worked though, I hope the rest of this is going to be a bit more planned out. You only have a couple months now, sure you're up for the challenge?"

Sherlock smirked. "Most definitely."

A long while later and after a quiet conversation about wedding plans and what actually would change, both of the Baker Street Boys stood up. John hesitated just briefly, but pulled Sherlock into a careful hug. His grip tightened when he was sure he wasn't going to hurt his best friend. "You...Sherlock. I'm very happy for you. If that means anything. And I'm glad you're alive for this. I don't know what we would have done if we'd...lost you."

"It is nice to be alive." Sherlock said, his free arm wrapping around John. He cleared his throat awkwardly, but closed his eyes and relaxed into the unexpected embrace. For everything that happened, from the last few weeks to the years previous, he always had John. John was his support, his heart, and his doctor. It was because of John that Sherlock had found it in himself to grow attached to Natasha. Even so, he was sure he'd never be able to put what he felt into eloquent words.

That didn't matter, it never did with John. The love of brothers by bond rather than blood often went unspoken.

Natasha caught a peek of the embrace through the open door when she returned from her outing, and dug her phone out of her coat pocket to take a picture. Quiet as a ninja, she tapped the screen and captured the moment while Sherlock's eyes were still closed. She didn't want to interrupt, but she lingered in the doorway with her shoulder pressed against the frame and a soft smile on her lips.

She'd make a gift of the picture eventually. A rare moment of sentiment, captured for posterity. Eyeing her boys a moment longer, she turned her eyes back to the screen and swiped at it with her finger one more time, using the photo as the background for her phone's home and lock screen.


	47. Chapter 47

Three weeks after arriving back at Baker Street, Sherlock had been cleared for leaving the flat for more than medical appointments. He was walking better, the muscles in his leg were healing well. He still wore the sling to keep his shoulder immobile. But that was healing as well. Between the specialist and the physical therapist, they both thought he'd return to full range of motion after some time.

It was just a very slow process and Sherlock was _so_ impatient. But at least he was alive.

One of the first outings they went on was out to eat. Angelo's again, and they'd been showered with praise and appreciation by the owner. Then it had been Josina Watson's third birthday, and the Watsons had a little party for friends and family to celebrate. Sherlock had gone, of course, and it had turned out much better than expected.

A couple days later it was time for the long awaited tradition that came with engagement. Sherlock Holmes and Natalia Romanova were going ring shopping. It was now halfway through February, and with less than two months until the wedding, it seemed like an appropriate time.

Sherlock dressed himself carefully in one of his many tailored suits, wearing the black shirt for Natasha's sake. The sling came next. And then the Belstaff overtop. He breathed in deep once he was dressed, staring at himself in the mirror. "Are you ready?" He asked without looking away.

Natasha moved in next to him so she could fix her navy blue dress in the mirror, and slipped into her own coat. "I'm ready," she replied. "Are you?" She met his eyes in the mirror. "Not changing your mind on me, are you?"

"Not at all." Sherlock said with a bit of a soft look. He turned towards her and offered his free hand. "Just thinking. Shall we?"

Natasha buttoned her coat and slipped her hand into his, quickly twining their fingers together. She pulled him down for a gentle kiss on the lips. "Lead the way."

Sherlock smiled again at her and took the lead outside. Twenty minutes later, they were walking into a modest but elegantly expensive jewelry store. Sherlock had unexpectedly come into quite a bit of money. Not that he'd been hurting financially anyways, but the money was there nevertheless. This wouldn't be a fake set for an undercover assignment, this was real, and ones that should last them a long time.

He cleared his throat awkwardly once they stepped foot inside, the young saleswoman already headed their direction. He took a second to deduce her, as he just couldn't help himself, but kept his mouth closed about her dying dog.

Natasha squeezed his hand and traced her thumb over the back, turning a measured smile towards the saleswoman. "Hi," she greeted, taking the lead. "My name's Natasha, and this is Sherlock. We're here for wedding rings."

The other woman's smile was bright and her eyes flicked briefly in Sherlock's direction in recognition. "I'd be happy to help. My name's Megan," she assured them both. "Did you have something in mind already?"

"Not really," Natasha admitted. "But we'd both like something simple," she added as they followed the saleswoman to a display counter. "Nothing too ostentatious."

Megan turned towards them with the lit counter standing between them. "And would you like a matching set?"

"Yes, that is the point." Sherlock droned, earning a bit of a confused look from Megan.

"Right, we have quite a few options in any setting or metal you are interested in. Simple, yet elegant." Megan moved on and began pulling various displays out for them to look through. "These are just samples, we will custom make the rings once you've decided."

Natasha eyed the options with a critical eye. Russian custom was to wear either simple gold bands or matching trinity rings on the right hand, but those were customs that had given way to modern ones with time. Nowadays, people wore whatever they liked. Albeit, more often than not, custom was still observed. She'd been under the employment of an American intelligence organization for years, but she still felt Russian in a lot of ways despite her less than stellar history with the Motherland. She just wasn't sure if she wanted to go with Russian custom on this particular occasion. She was free to choose what she liked.

So what did she like? Brow furrowed in concentration, she pursed her lips in growing agitation at finding herself completely and utterly clueless when faced with so many different options. She felt a bit like she was grasping at straws. She wanted to pick the right ring—the _perfect_ ring, because what she was doing with Sherlock was immensely important to her. She didn't want to mess it up. Her grip on Sherlock's hand tightened without her meaning to but she forced herself to breathe out. "Do you mind giving us a minute here, Megan?"

"Not at all." Megan said with a knowing smile. She'd set the last of the trays out, giving them over a hundred different options. "We have more settings if you can't find one you like. Just ring the bell when you're ready." She stepped away leaving them both alone.

"I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this." Sherlock said, his blue eyes fixed on the dozens of sparkling rings as intensely as if surveying evidence on a case.

Natasha expelled a relieved breath at his admission. "Okay, me neither," she confessed. "How can they have so many options? It's insane." She paused. "Let's just narrow it down to the simplest options and go from there." She eyed the trays. "White gold or yellow gold?"

"Yellow gold is more traditional." Sherlock commented, scanning the options. Naturally his would be just a plain band, but coloring was important. "But I think I favor white. Do you have a preference?"

"Yellow's usually the standard in Russia too," she replied. "But yeah, I think I prefer white." She paused. "It's just that I'd like to wear this ring while I'm working too, and I keep thinking that anything other than a simple band or a trinity ring, would get in the way," she explained, ever practical. "But I know brides in most other places and circumstances usually go for the…" She made a vague gesture at the rest of the trays with her free hand. "Diamond look, and I don't want to… make the wrong choice here. I'm a little out of my depth."

"Perhaps a…compromise." Sherlock said, sliding the more ornate designs away and pulling the simpler settings towards them. "Practicality and beauty. Logically though, I'm not sure you can make the _wrong_ choice."

"Logically, no," Natasha agreed. "I'm just projecting my fear of failing you in general into this particular choice," she said quietly. "Compromise is a good idea. Maybe..." Her fingers plucked one of the options out of the nearest tray. It was a white gold, diamond encrusted band. Essentially a circle of small diamonds that wrapped around her finger. Beautiful, but simple enough that it wouldn't get in the way of work. "This one?"

"I like it." Sherlock said, wrapping his arm around her and placing a kiss to her temple. He made note to have a conversation about failure in the future. It was a fear they both shared. "Try it on?"

Natasha had instantly relaxed at his touch. "Yes sir," she quipped quietly as she slipped the band onto her ring finger, consciously choosing the left over the right. Her lips lifted at the corner and she leaned against him, hand stretched out in front of her. "I think I like this one."

"You sure? There's four hundred other options to choose from." Sherlock commented, but it was a tease. Natasha smacked him playfully. He smiled a bit, even though she couldn't see his face, and held her close. "I like it too."

"Then we've got a winner." She gestured for the saleswoman to come back.

Megan smiled. "You've decided?"

"Yes," Natasha replied, gently twisting the ring off her finger. "This one for me and in that size, with the matching band for him," she explained.

Megan put several trays away, keeping only the one with male options to test Sherlock for size. "And would you like anything engraved on the inside?"

"That's a thing people do…" Sherlock commented, crinkling his brow in a bit of thought. He extended his hand to have Natasha help put the band on his finger.

Megan laughed lightly at his expression. "Yes, some people do."

Sherlock didn't speak for a moment, completely still before he declared. "I'm assuming you won't be putting in the actual words right this moment. I'll send the engraving in tonight for pick up by the end of the week."

"That's fine." Megan said, glancing between the two of them with a smile.

Natasha slipped the ring onto his finger and fiddled with it once before meeting his eyes with a soft smile. " _We don't have to do the engraving thing, you know,_ " she told him in Russian. " _We can just skip that part_."

" _I know, just forget about it."_ Sherlock assured her with a soft look, nodding his approval at the chosen band for himself.

"Is that-" Megan started, but was quickly cut off by Sherlock.

"Russian, yes. I think we've made our decision."

The next few minutes were spent reiterating their choice, size, payment, names, and date of pick up, and eventually Megan thanked them for coming in and left to continue her work.

Sherlock slipped his hand back into Natasha's and they headed out of the jewelry shop back onto the London streets. "Mycroft has ensured they'll be free, but I still haven't told my parents yet."

Natasha smiled faintly and moved in a little closer. "I suppose we _could_ tell them together, but they could just prefer hearing it from you."

"Not necessarily, they like you."

"Then do you mind if we tell them together?" Natasha asked.

"Not at all. They'll probably believe me if you're there." Sherlock quipped.

Natasha nudged him with her shoulder, laughing quietly. "So you're not apprehensive about making the announcement?"

"Apprehensive? Why would I be apprehensive? I've told just about everyone else, well not exactly. John's told most people. Apparently Lestrade laughed really hard and thought it was a joke. Mycroft nearly spilled the tea, but I told you that already." Sherlock spoke very quickly and then stopped himself with a breath. He cleared his throat. "Nope, not apprehensive at all."

"It _looks_ and _sounds_ like you're lying," Natasha informed him. "I wouldn't know if there is or isn't any reason to be," she conceded. "But I'm going to be with you either way. If nothing else, you've got me."

"Apparently so." Sherlock said back, squeezing her hand as they stopped to hail a cab. "I've got you for a very long time. You agreed to it."

"Best decision I ever made," she retorted, smiling warmly. "But seriously," she continued once a cab pulled up for them and they climbed inside, issuing quick instructions. "Apprehensive, yes or no?"

Sherlock was quiet a moment. "Yes, a bit. Just like everyone else I've told. Mummy really likes you, so it's not that. Perhaps simply the whole notion of it, you're not the only one afraid of failure."

Natasha turned her face towards him, lips pressed against his shoulder while she studied his profile. She pulled away just a bit after a moment and spoke softly. "Do you want to talk about that over dinner or should we go back to your place?"

"Let's have dinner." Sherlock concluded professionally. "Probably should eat something aside from toast, and Mrs Hudson is out again tonight."

"You should," she agreed, leaning away to give the cabbie new instructions but pausing to check with Sherlock first. "Angelo's?"

"Might as well." Sherlock agreed, squeezing her hand when she leaned back towards him. The rest of the ride was spent in comfortable silence, and soon the two of them were walking into Angelo's again. It was one of their favorites, and Angelo was always very gracious.

Upon being seated in their usual spot, after a quick drink order, Sherlock let go of Natasha's hand to glance through the menu. "I think I've tried nearly everything here now, actually going out to eat instead of simply taking John to get food while I'm working."

"Me too," Natasha admitted with a half smile. "Next time, we can try a new place," she suggested. "Somewhere just as quiet. It's what I like about this place." She finished scanning the options and set her menu down. "So about this fear thing..." She paused. "Should I talk first?"

"If you'd like." Sherlock said, setting the menu aside and fidgeting with his sling again. He caught himself and glanced back up at her.

Natasha clasped her hands on her lap and studied him for a moment before she exhaled a nervous laugh. "Right, I just don't know where to begin." She paused again. "In the simplest terms, I'm just afraid of screwing things up between us. You're immensely important to me, and I just... I just sometimes feel like I'm not enough. I don't know how else to explain it."

"Do I make you feel like you're not enough?" Sherlock asked, crinkling his brow in confusion. "You're immensely important to me as well, and I fear you'll cut your losses after one too many times being ignored in favor of a case."

"No, it's not you," Natasha told him honestly. "Your work is important to you and I respect that, same as you respect my work is important to me." She leaned forward a little. "I'm... insecure because I was created for a very specific purpose and it sometimes feels like I'm missing important pieces because of it. It's something I've been working on for years, and likely will still be working on for years to come... but in the meantime, I do sometimes fear you'll look at me with all my missing pieces and cut your losses in much the same way." She paused again to study him. "Does that make sense?"

"I…I think so, yes." Sherlock said, pausing for a moment of thought. He met her eyes again and continued. "I'm missing pieces too, it's who I am and who I've forced myself to become with the choices I've made. I don't mind your missing pieces if you don't mind mine."

"I don't," Natasha told him quickly. "I love all of you, missing pieces or no missing pieces." She reached out to take his unhurt hand and locked eyes with him. "I'm also not going to cut my losses and bolt, okay? I'm in this for the long haul."

"As am I." Sherlock said, squeezing her hand gently. "If I wasn't in this for the long haul, I'm certain I would have died in Switzerland. I love all of you, no matter who you were or what you've done."

Natasha brought his hand to her lips and pressed a brief kiss to his palm. "Thank you." She lowered it back to the table and intertwined their fingers. "So as far as fears go," she continued. "Is that the only one or are there more?"

"I think that was the biggest one for me." Sherlock said after a moment. "The others are illogical and not something we can control."

"Illogical fears are bound to crop up every now and then," she agreed. "If they get to be too much though, illogical or not, I think we should talk about them. If nothing else, so we can share the weight. Figuratively speaking." She smiled softly. "Deal?"

"You have a deal." Sherlock said with a mirroring smile. "I still have…insecurities that I'm…cut out for this sort of thing. That I cannot be what you need."

"That's a fear we have in common," she assured him. "The... being cut out for this sort of thing, but all I need is for you to be yourself, same as you have been up until now." She paused. "Is there anything you need that I'm not doing?"

"No, I don't think so." Sherlock shook his head. "We adjust between this domestic time and our usual quite well. I don't need anything more than what you're already give."

"We _are_ pretty good at adjusting, aren't we?" Natasha mused with a faint smile. "Maybe it's not that hard after all. Maybe it just takes the right people." She kissed his hand one more time as Angelo appeared to pour the wine and take their order, and promptly withdrew. Once he'd disappeared, she picked up her glass for a taste.

He let go of her hand to pick up his own glass. And after trying it, he continued. "The right combination, yes, I agree. Besides, ours is a very specific set of needs, desires, and things able to be given."

"True," she agreed. "Of course, most people would call us difficult because of our specific needs and desires," she added with another short laugh. "I'm just glad you don't think I'm difficult, in the negative sense."

"I'd be calling myself difficult in the negative sense then." Sherlock said. "We are difficult, but it works, apparently."

"Good thing, too, because I'm looking forward to spending the next few decades with you."

"You better plan on it." Sherlock winked.


	48. Chapter 48

Two months after he was released from the hospital, Sherlock Holmes was once again taking cases and dashing about London in a furious flurry of black Belstaff. Natasha was a blur of red and black beside him, quietly asking questions between deductions and over puddles of blood. They were nothing if not practical and they did still have a fast approaching wedding to plan.

Sherlock's second case took him to look at a body at St. Bart's. Lestrade called while Sherlock and Natasha were in the middle of deciding color schemes and table accommodations for their guests, so they took their decision-making to Bart's morgue without hesitation.

Natasha was clad in dark clothes and boots, underneath a bright red coat. Sherlock inspected the corpse Molly Hooper had laid out for him on the table.

"I'm torn between just navy blue or just red," she informed him while eyeing the guest list in her hand with a keen eye. "It can't be both."

"Red works with black better." Sherlock said, a forceps and probe in hand as he carefully inspected the corpse's neck beneath the long hair. He sniffed once, narrowing his eyes at the bruises on the dark skin. "Navy blue would require a white or silver to pair with it instead. I'd prefer red and black, but I can see it going either way. Red is your signature, so it would depend how much you wanted to play with that."

Natasha's lips lifted at the corner but she kept her eyes on the list. "You know me too well," she breathed. "Let's go with red and black, but keep the black to a minimum. Roses for my bouquet and for the centerpieces on the guests tables?"

"Roses are good, yes. I've got the florist picked out, all we need to discuss is the specific order." Sherlock straightened up and moved to the corpse's feet next, giving them the same careful examination. "Single roses with glass and a cream colored candle came up as a simple but elegant option. Should there be anything else?"

"No, I like that," she decided as she moved towards the head of the corpse to give him space. "What about the table cloths? I've seen people sometimes do two for each table; a long one that reaches the floor and a short one. So..." She lowered the list to look at him. "What about black for the long one and red for the short one?"

"Perfect." Sherlock agreed, sniffing again and then huffing out his nose. "John will have a red tie with his black tux then. Was Pepper going to be in red or black? I think I'd prefer black, less obvious."

"Black for Pepper and then my dress will be cream instead of white," she replied while sneaking her own peek at the corpse. "Guest list and seating chart now," she announced once she'd straightened to resume studying the list. "Sam is sitting at the same table with Molly, that's non-negotiable. I'll find someone else for Greg."

Sherlock tilted his head as he found something. "Hmmm splinters….Does Molly know you're attempting to set her up with an Avenger?"

"I'm sure she'll figure it out at the wedding if she hasn't already," she assured him, scribbling a note beside Molly's name. "I can't handle seeing her with another idiot anyway. You and I both know she deserves better." She paused. "Does anyone we know have kids besides the Bartons and the Watsons?"

Sherlock paused and straightened up to whip out his phone, speaking while he typed. "No, none that would be invited anyways. Were we doing the ring bean and flower child whatever it's called thing?"

"Ring bearer and flower girl?" Natasha scribbled one more note on the list and walked over to tuck it in Sherlock's coat pocket. "I don't know. Should we? I've always gotten the impression kids hate getting dressed up and performing for adults." She capped the pen she'd been using and tucked it into the same pocket as the list. "We could always ask them directly."

"Yeah…that's what I thought too. Josi might agree, she does enjoy dress-up." Sherlock said distractedly as he pressed send on the text and lowered the phone. "Case solved, almost. They'll need to test the wood in the splinters to the wood at the brother-in-law's house to be certain. Our work is done. Anyways, next?"

Natasha grabbed his scarf and pulled him down for a kiss. "We've got the color scheme down and the guest list looks good to me," she recapped when she broke away. "We can hammer out the details of the seating chart after we send out the invitations and people start R.S.V.P's. Right now all that's left is telling your parents."

"Less than a month away now." Sherlock said, winking at her as he stood up straight again. "Probably would be a good time to tell them. Fancy a drive to the country tonight? After stealing a car from Mycroft, of course."

"Sounds like fun," she agreed, smiling as she slid her hand into his. "It's been awhile since I've stolen a car."

"Me too." Sherlock said, squeezing her hand as they breezed out of the morgue. A quick thank you to Molly Hooper and they left St. Bart's one case solved to complete the next mission.

* * *

A/N: Thank you so so much for those who've reviewed! You get all the cookies. As well as thank you to those who are following or have favorited our novel. We appreciate you too. Keep having fun. -G&A


	49. Chapter 49

Natasha had been an influence on Sherlock in many ways. And one of those had increased his already proficient breaking and entering skills. They were in and out of Mycroft's personal garage with a shiny black four door Jaguar in less than five minutes.

An hour's drive later, Sherlock pulled up outside the modest home well outside the hustle and bustle of the city. He hadn't told his parents they were coming, but knew they'd be home. They followed a very predictable schedule outside of their traveling and he'd glanced at Mycroft's planner to be sure.

Once out of the car, he took Natasha's hand again and headed to the door. No knock or ring of the bell, he just let them in with his key. "Dad? Mummy?"

Natasha fiddled nervously with her scarf as Sherlock's mother swept into the room. They'd met several times previously, and spent Christmas dinner together the year previous, but the circumstances and unique news pulled out new nerves in both of them.

"Sherlock! Natasha, dear! I didn't know you were coming over," Mrs Holmes greeted warmly. "You should've told me!"

"Day of surprises, apparently." Sherlock said, letting go of Natasha's hand to hug and kiss his mother on the forehead. "Don't worry about dinner, but I think we could all use a cup of tea. Dad here?"

"He's in the back den with a puzzle, I'll fetch him." Mrs. Holmes said, turning her attention to Natasha next and pulling her into an embrace as well. "Natasha, dear, you look well. So good to see you again. Mikey says you've been helping after Sherlock's accident."

Natasha squeezed her tightly. "He didn't need much help," she assured her. "He mostly just needed company and I was more than happy to give him that." She pulled away with a soft smile she'd developed only after meeting Mrs. Holmes, and now reserved exclusively for her. "I'll go get the tea started while you find Mr. Holmes?"

"Perfect." Mrs. Holmes smiled back and then slipped away to find her husband.

After pulling off his coat and scarf (much easier now that his shoulder was close to full range of motion again) Sherlock led the way to the kitchen and helped Natasha set up the tea set. He'd smiled once at her, but otherwise remained a thoughtful silent.

"Hurry up, you." Mrs Holmes patted her husband's bum as she moved around him once they'd walked into the room. She eyed them both with blue eyes identical to Sherlock's, and then went to find the biscuits as Mr Holmes spoke. "So is there are reason you both drove all the way out here? Quite unusual, but we know you're busy with work."

"We have news," Natasha explained, arranging tea cups round the table. "Good news," she felt the need to add.

"Good news as in you're pregnant?" Mrs. Holmes asked once she'd set the biscuits down on the table to take up a seat.

"I'm..." Natasha exhaled a laugh, briefly glancing at Sherlock for a bit of help. "No, I'm not pregnant."

Mrs. Holmes looked a bit disappointed, but reached for her husband's hand. Sherlock huffed a bit out his nose, and spoke. "No, it's…different news." He paused briefly, eyes flitting from Natasha to his parents. "We're getting married."

"What?" Mrs. Holmes said first, but then burst into a big smile. "Oh! This is so wonderful! Honestly, we never expected this, but I'm ever so happy he did. I've completely given up hope on his brother. How'd he propose?"

"Mikey's just not the marrying kind," Mr. Holmes added with a quiet chuckle.

"Well we didn't think Sherlock was either, lost causes. Never showed interest, my silly boys." Mrs. Holmes quipped back.

"Well, I suppose I could always set him up with this woman I know back in the States... but I doubt he'd be receptive to my kind of help," Natasha said thoughtfully. "It was after Sherlock came home from the hospital," she continued. "That first night while we were in bed, and it was very sweet. Very private and very low key." She looked at Sherlock, who smiled back at her. "It was perfect."

"We're very happy for you both, aren't we dear?" Mrs. Holmes said, making sure her husband nodded his agreement. "When is it? Do you need any help?"

"It's less than a month away," she answered. "We're sending out the invitations tomorrow... but I think we're handling it okay," she peeked at Sherlock again, "right?"

"Right. We've got-" Sherlock confirmed, only to be interrupted by his mother.

"Less than a month away? But there's so much to do. Do you need a dress yet?"

"I have the dress," Natasha assured her. "I actually have the final fitting this week-"

"Then I'm coming with you," Mrs. Holmes insisted. "No bride should have to do it all on her own-"

"You really don't have to," Natasha said quickly.

"Nonsense." Mrs. Holmes evidently wasn't having it. "It's usually the mother that goes to fittings with the bride, and I'm more than happy to fill in if you'll have me."

Natasha swallowed against the sudden lump of emotion clogging her throat, blinking to keep tears at bay. "Of course I'll have you," she said earnestly. "Fitting's this Friday at one."

Sherlock glanced from his mother to his fiancée, attempting to understand what that exchange was. Deciding it was best to simply continue as opposed to dwell, he moved on. "It's the first weekend of April, Saturday, Mycroft has assured me your schedule was clear."

"It is." Mr. Holmes confirmed, smiling softly at them. "And I'm very proud of you both."

"Not that we wouldn't be otherwise, Natasha, you're already a part of the family." Mrs. Holmes added. "But it's a big commitment, and I'm looking forward to watching the life you two live together. Maybe you'll come by to visit a bit more?"

"As much as our work schedules allow," Natasha promised once she'd recovered.

"Good, then it's settled," Mrs. Holmes confirmed happily, finally taking a sip of her tea. "Are you sure you don't want children? Granted, we had more than we could handle with these two," she added with a fond smile for her son, "but we love them to bits."

Sherlock paused and took Natasha's hand. "Natasha can't have children, Mum." He said. "Even if we decided we wanted to pursue that life-altering venture, we could not."

"Oh... dear, I'm so sorry." Mrs. Holmes face fell with sober embarrassment. "I had no idea."

Natasha gripped Sherlock's hand tight, offering his mother a warm smile. "I know, and there's really no harm done," she assured her. "I should've said something before today."

"I'm still incredibly happy and incredibly proud of the decision you two've made," she told them both.

Sherlock turned towards Natasha to meet her eyes, offering an encouraging and fond smile. "Thank you." He said honestly, turning his attention back to his parents. "We do appreciate it, immensely. We don't need help, physically or financially, all you need to do is show up. It's going to be a fairly small event."

"Sounds like the sort of thing you'd both favor," Mr. Holmes commented with a fond smile after exchanging a quick look with his wife. "But if you do need help, let us know."

"And I'm still coming with you to the final fitting, dear," Mrs. Holmes told Natasha. "I insist."

Natasha exhaled a laugh. "That's fine."

"Now about your gifts," Mrs. Holmes continued. "What do you need?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away, glancing over at Natasha again for ideas. "Um, I don't know. Nothing traditional, I suppose. My kitchen is fully functioning."

"As a lab, darling." Mrs. Holmes said. "I really need to talk to Martha about that."

"Not just as a lab." Sherlock replied childishly. "I don't know what we need. What do married couples need that we do not have?"

"I don't know." Natasha took a moment to think it over. "Mycroft keeps insisting you don't own a decent set of teacups for when there's company. Maybe something along those lines?"

"Perfect!" Mrs. Holmes said before Sherlock had the chance to reply. "I think I have just the idea. Now forget all about it. I'm sure you have quite a lot on your minds anyways."

"Something like that." Sherlock replied, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Natasha reached out to steal a biscuit. "Today we finished squaring off the guest list," she informed them. "Next is the seating chart but we've still got time." She popped a bit of biscuit into her mouth and tipped her head towards Sherlock. "I just wanted to get a jump start on placement. I'm determined to have a few people seated at the same tables... I've been annoying Sherlock with my planning rambles."

"Something to focus on while I'm not working, it hasn't been horrid." Sherlock reiterated, he paused. "Well, I can think of several things that are better than planning rambles."

"You're working now though, yes? Your brother didn't go into details about your accident, Sherly." Mr Holmes said.

"Yes, I'm working now. Easing back into it." Sherlock replied vaguely, dodging the unasked question. "Anyways, planning rambles aside, we will get everything done in time."

Natasha gave Sherlock's hand an affectionate squeeze. "We're doing fine on time," she agreed. "We're both good planners."

"Sherlock gets that from him mother, I'm afraid." Mr. Holmes said with a chuckle. "You should go through the photo albums with Natasha, dear."

"Or not." Sherlock interrupted.

"Why not?" Natasha protested quickly.

"It's an excellent idea!" Mrs. Holmes clapped her hands once. "He was an adorable child," she informed Natasha as she turned for the door. "In love with that dog! Poor Mycroft couldn't stand it when Sherly climbed into bed with him. Redbeard followed him everywhere."

"And here we go…" Sherlock mumbled in exasperation as his father chuckled again.

"We took the sweetest picture not long after we got him, with the three of them curled up asleep in Mikey's bed. Sherly must have been five or six at the time. So darling."

"See you really shouldn't haven't gotten them started on this…" Sherlock interrupted again, only to be talked over.

"Then there was that little ravine incident a couple years later, poor boys, always getting into trouble." Mrs. Holmes laughed. "Nothing's really changed, has it?"

"I suppose it hasn't," Natasha agreed after giving Sherlock a look meant to say it _really_ wasn't her fault (even though she was thoroughly enjoying this), but she'd make it right. "Maybe we can look at the albums next time? We should really head back soon."

"I'll bring one of them Friday." Mrs. Holmes promised with a wink, delicately setting her tea cup on its saucer. "Thank you for coming to see us though. I'm almost surprised we didn't just get a phone call."

"Tradition, or something along those lines." Sherlock provided, squeezing Natasha's hand before he let go to stand up.

"Something along those lines..." Natasha rose from her chair, smiling to herself. "I'll see you Friday, then."

"We'll walk you to the door," Mrs. Holmes said quickly while nudging her husband. "Just remember to call us if you need anything," she added once they reached the entryway. "Anything at all. Don't hesitate."

"Yes ma'am." Sherlock said, dropping a kiss to his mother's cheek, and shaking his father's hand. The Holmeses exchanged similar goodbyes with Natasha, and soon the couple was back on their way to the car. Sherlock released a breath, and tilted his head up to look at the stars that dotted the clear sky of the countryside.

Natasha studied his features in silence and felt a familiar warmth spread through her chest. "That went well," she said finally.

"Very well, I'm nearly surprised." Sherlock agree, tearing his gaze away from the stars to the car. He let go of her hand to walk to the driver's side. He continued once he climbed in and started it. "But perhaps I shouldn't be." He glanced at her. "Sorry about the comment my mother made. I didn't feel the need to tell them."

"No, it's fine," Natasha assured him quickly. "I probably should've addressed it sooner." She snuck a peek at him and cleared her throat. "I know we've talked about it before and you've already told me children aren't something you want or need," she continued, "but I need to hear it again now... if it's still true and if you don't mind."

"I don't want children, I would not make a good father." Sherlock affirmed, offering her his hand in the dark of the car. "I just want you, scars and all."

Natasha took his hand and moved across the small space between them to catch his lips in a grateful kiss. "Thank you," she said quietly.

" _I love you_." Sherlock replied in Russian. He reached with his free hand to smooth down her red hair. "I need you, and I never want to let you go."

Natasha released his hand and took hold of his coat collar to draw him into another kiss, this one considerably more passionate than the first. " _I love you and I need you too_ ," she whispered against his lips. _"And I never want to let you go._ "

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed his approval and agreement, tilting his head to catch her a third time. A promise of more when they got home.

"Tease," she accused, breathlessly, once she'd let him go. "Take us home."


	50. Chapter 50

The next three and a half weeks went by quickly. Between work and planning, the soon-to-be newlyweds were busy almost round the clock. There were cases to be solved and villains to be apprehended, but there were also dresses that needed picking up, food menus that needed looking over, bridesmaids dresses that needed fitting and cake samples that needed tasting.

For the latter, Sherlock and Natasha were unsurprised to find that Mycroft's baker was every bit as spectacular as promised. Natasha made a final decision to introduce Mycroft to a high-ranking CIA official she occasionally shared a glass of wine and information with, called Naomi, as a 'thank you'.

Sherlock took over planning their sex holiday, as he'd come to call it (to Natasha's amusement). She'd been given only vague hints about what to pack and no specifics about the location, which presented her with a bit of a problem. In an effort to solve it, she paid Mycroft Holmes a visit at one of his many offices.

Mycroft, unfortunately, had been as secretive about the location as his brother. Natasha finally had to confide that she had a wedding gift for Sherlock she'd like to send ahead of time, so she wouldn't have to pack it or carry it with her on the plane and risk damaging it. Mycroft promised he'd take care of it for her after some wheedling, but still didn't give up the location. Natasha eventually let it go.

The week before The Day Of was a busy one. Tony and Pepper flew in with Vision and Wanda first, followed shortly after by Thor and Jane. Steve flew in with Sharon, and Clint with Laura, trailed by their three kids. Sam was the last to fly in with Maria and Bruce. Tony had taken care of all flight arrangements and accommodations, and wouldn't hear of anyone paying for their own.

There was a wedding rehearsal and dinner once everybody was settled in, and before they knew it, the wedding day was upon them. In recent years, Natasha had allowed her hair to grow in long waves she'd sported for most her life. For her wedding, she arranged them in a 'half-up half-down' hairstyle that would show off the pearl earrings she'd gotten from Sherlock's mother, but still would cover an old scar behind her neck.

The earrings were her 'something old and her something borrowed'.

Pepper and Maria, along with Mrs. Holmes, helped her into her wedding dress once they were dressed and ready in black and shades of grey. Natasha had chosen a floor length silk-satin number in a mermaid silhouette, sporting a lace bodice with a deep-v in the front and an exposed back from behind. Cream in color, it had a bit of a train flaring out behind, and absolutely no room for weapons.

Natasha, for the first time in her life, didn't mind. She kept her makeup minimal and wore only a simple veil that wouldn't cover her face. She wanted him to see _her_ when she walked down the aisle, and she wanted to see him in turn.

Once ready, all four women exited the hotel room they'd used to get ready so Sherlock wouldn't catch an inadvertent of Natasha's dress, and piled into the dark tinted limousine waiting for them out front. Natasha fidgeted with bouquet of red roses until Mrs. Holmes reached over and took one of her hands in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"It'll be fine, dear," she told her quietly.

Natasha covered her hand with her free one, feeling a smile light up her features. "I know."

* * *

The venue had been carefully chosen for practicality, privacy, space, and availability. The Osterley Park and House had been available, despite their short notice. Sherlock and John were stationed there, helping make sure everything was ready to go before people, and more importantly, Natasha, got there.

Sherlock was dressed and nervous. A black tailored suit, with a silver colored tie and waist coat, and a red rose boutonniere. Hidden beneath where a pair of red polkadot suspenders, worn at John's wedding, who thought it'd be funny to wear and prompted it with a knowing grin.

Physically, Sherlock looked healthy. He'd gained the weight back that he'd lost whilst being injured. The bruises and abrasions were long gone. The only remnants of his time in Switzerland were a small bullet scar on his thigh, and the larger one on his shoulder where he'd been impaled with a thin pole. He was nearly at one hundred percent mobility, thanks to a consultation with Doctor Helen Cho and being forced into being a good patient.

Sherlock stood near the front of the Entrance Hall room where they'd decided on having the wedding. Hands clasped behind his back, expression impassive and thoughtful. People had started milling about, the wedding due to start in twenty minutes. Sherlock's head was zipping through everything, double checking to make sure they had everything ready.

Through the small gathering of people, John emerged, carrying his blonde three year old who was a beautiful red dress. His expression was knowing and fond, and he came to a stop in front of his best friend. "You alright?"

"Of course I'm alright, why wouldn't I be alright, everything's perfectly fine, should go off without any issues. Might even catch a murderer, wouldn't that be fun, probably not, we carefully screened everyone who'd be working this wedding for motives against the high profile individuals here. Plus we have the Avengers here, in addition to Mycroft's security team, no murders, which is-"

"Sherlock, stop." John said, holding out his free hand to prevent any more nervous rambling from the detective. "It'll be fine, just relax. You'll have a lot more fun if you just relax."

"I am relaxed, I'm perfectly relaxed. Look at me." Sherlock insisted.

Josi beat John to a response, holding out her hand just like her father had done. "No, Uncle Sherlock." She said in all the professionalism that she could.

This made Sherlock release a breathy laugh.

"It'll be just fine." John assured him, quickly pulling him into a brotherly hug with his daughter in the middle.

Natasha arrived exactly ten minutes before the ceremony was scheduled to start. Maria, Pepper and Mrs. Holmes climbed out of the car first, but the latter soon scuttled away to take her front row seat next to her husband, Mr. Holmes. Maria stayed with Pepper and Natasha to help smooth out their dresses but eventually disappeared as well, signaling the bride's arrival to the pertinent parties. Steve made a quick appearance to hand Natasha her 'something blue and something new': a sky blue lace handkerchief she tucked into one of her hands, insisting she wouldn't be crying. Steve gave her a peck on the cheek and whispered a quiet reassurance before he disappeared.

Five minutes to The Moment Of, Pepper took up her position behind the closed door that lead into the room where the ceremony would take place. Natasha did the same behind her and expelled a long, steadying breath. It came out shakier than she would've liked, but there was little she could do about her nerves. If nothing else, she wanted to be fully genuine on her wedding day. Nerves and all. Maria opened the door and peeked in when the music started.

"One minute," she announced. "Are you girls ready?"

Natasha looked up and Pepper peeked at her over her shoulder, flashing an encouraging smile. "Are we?"

"As we'll ever be," Natasha confirmed.

Maria smirked. "He's as nervous as you are," she assured her quietly, opening the door fully to let them by. Pepper turned her head forward and waited a beat before gliding gracefully down the aisle. Natasha was beckoned forward to do the same shortly after, and her eyes inevitably sought out and fixed on her husband-to-be.

"Breathe," she instructed herself under her breath.

As the music played Sherlock had his back to the door, standing next to John with fidgety hands. John snuck a peek over his shoulder and smiled as Natasha glided down the flower covered aisle. He nudged Sherlock with an elbow.

Sherlock inhaled deeply to calm himself down, and then turned around. Catching sight of Natasha for the first time pushed every little nerve away completely. His initial expression was shock, then he smiled. The smile grew from fond anticipation to adoring elation he was not going to hide. The music played softly in the background, the people seated around were smiling at her as well. But they didn't matter. The only one that did was his saving angel walking down the aisle. When she was close enough to touch, he extended his hand for hers. He didn't say anything, he wasn't sure words would be able to explain what was happening in his head at that point. So he just squeezed her hand gently.

Natasha laced her fingers with his, no longer nervous or anxious but completely calm. She was _home_ and the thought made her smile. She handed off her bouquet to Pepper, and once everyone resumed their seats, the ceremony began. Sherlock and Natasha both requested that it be kept reasonably short, and so they were briefly lectured on love, commitment, hard work and communication. Concepts they were both intimately familiar with after so many years and experiences together, but intermittently listened to nevertheless.

They exchanged the traditional vows, having decided early on that whatever they needed to say to each other they would say in private. They were both private people to begin with when it came to sentiment, it was only fitting that the same would apply to their wedding day. Eventually they were asked to exchange rings and Natasha let go of Sherlock's hand so he could retrieve both from their ring bearer.

Sherlock crouched down to take the rings from Nathaniel Barton, who was sitting in the front row with his family. The three year old was very well behaved, surprising, and had taken his job very seriously. Sherlock winked once at Natasha's namesake, and then straightened again, turning to face his almost-wife.

He'd picked up the rings and they hadn't worn them during the engagement period, as may have been custom. The white gold bands were relatively thin, and matched perfectly. Natasha's had a series of diamonds around it. And on the inside he'd engraved something sentimental. A note that they could remember while they were apart. In Russian, the nicknames they'd accidentally used once upon a time: 'Princess' and 'Charming'.

She'd find the engraving later, and his eyes were only on her as they exchanged the rings. They knew was was happening next, so they didn't bother waiting for the officiator to declare. He pulled her in close, wrapping her up in his arms and kissed her fiercely as he dipped her down. For as private as they could be, Sherlock was not feeling shy when it came to kissing his new wife in front of everyone they cared about.

Natasha wrapped her arms around his neck to return the kiss with equal passion, vaguely aware of distant clapping and a couple of whistles she was sure Clint and Tony were responsible for. Sublimely happy as she was in her husband's arms, she couldn't bring herself to care about anything other than _him_. "I love you," she said against his lips when she paused for air. "And if you keep kissing me like that, I might find myself needing private _quality_ time with my new husband."

"Patience, love." Sherlock said quietly, smirking down at her. He pulled her back up so she was standing. The music started again, and the clapping and whistling had continued. So he grabbed her hand, and headed down the aisle, smiling like an idiot.

The reception was to be held outside in a tent on the greens surrounding the house. Pictures were next, with their photographer (who was not a murderer). They didn't take too many photos, keeping it relatively simple. Just enough to share with their family and friends, and one for 221B. Both of them were photogenic, so it didn't take very long to get a couple that would work. They'd forgone the tedious tradition of the reception line, preferring to make their way around the groups themselves.

It was a bit of a whirlwind after that, with dinner and toasts and well-wishers all around. By the time evening rolled around, a smattering of stars lit up the sky and the music changed to something slow on a violin for their very first dance as husband and wife. One of Sherlock's compositions, Natasha recognized immediately. Once the music changed and everyone joined in, they parted ways to share dances with a few of the guests.

Eventually, however, and always, they found their way to each other in the middle of the dance floor.

Natasha hadn't been able to stop smiling, practically glowing with happiness as her hands sought her husband's and dragged him closer. "I saw the engraving," she informed him quietly, once he'd pulled her into his arms for another dance. "Sneaky man."

"Yes, I am." Sherlock agreed, giving her a soft smile. "I'll let you see mine when you disrobe me later tonight."

"Mhm," she confirmed with a cheeky smile. "I hope you weren't planning on getting much sleep," she added. "I intend to take my time and we have an early flight tomorrow too."

"Hmm, just fine. We can sleep on the plane. It's a long flight." Sherlock assured her. "I take it from your smile that you're having fun. It seems everyone else is having a good time as well, plenty of smiles, and I think the clap on the back from Clint was an indicator of his approval."

"It is," Natasha replied while sneaking a peek at Clint, dancing with his wife towards the edge of the dance floor. "And I am having fun," she continued once she'd returned her focus to her new husband's face. "Aren't you? Because we could always leave a little early. I have no objections."

Sherlock smirked, as if he'd been given a major case. "You think we can escape here early? Out from under the eye of all your teammates, not mention my brother?"

"If anyone could it'd be you and me," she assured him with a sudden mischievous glint in her eye. "Are you up for the challenge?"

"I believe I am, wife of mine." He replied with a wink, glancing over at the other couples and groups dancing. Catching sight of Molly and Sam talking in a corner, John dancing around the edge with a giggling Josina. Mary and Mrs Hudson chatting with Jane and Thor. Lestrade laughing at one of Tony's stupid jokes. The list continued. "I think we can do it. Our car's out back, ready to go."

"Then let's sneak away now, while everyone's still distracted enough not to notice." Natasha did her own quick survey and let Sherlock go to snatch up the train of her dress so it wouldn't hinder their escape. "I'll pretend I'm heading for the bathroom and meet you at the car?"

"See you soon." Sherlock said, catching her in a quick kiss before he let her go completely. He made his way over to John and Josi, crouching down to pull the young girl into a quick hug. He kissed her once the head. "Thank you very much, Miss Watson, you did very well."

Josina giggled and wiggled in his arms, so he let her go and stood to talk to John. "Thank you as well, John."

John smiled softly, pulling Sherlock into another hug. "You're welcome, Sherlock."

There wasn't really need for more words. Everything that was their relationship went unspoken. Best friends that understood each other in many ways.

"Daddy, I want to dance with Thor again!" Josi said, pulling on John's trouser leg.

John laughed, giving Sherlock one more look before he surrendered to his daughter's whims. "Come on then, sweetie, I'm sure if you ask nicely he'll say yes."

Sherlock took that opportunity to slip away. Leaving a wedding early….to go celebrate alone with his new wife.

They snuck out of the party with very little trouble. They were a consulting detective and a master assassin after all. If anyone was upset about that fact, they didn't get any texts or calls about it.

Sherlock had booked them a hotel suite not far from the airport, where their luggage was already. It'd be an easy morning, which was good because the night was going to be long.

Once the hotel door room closed, Sherlock and Natasha were a whirl of hands and fervent kisses. All the pent up emotion of the day unleashing now that they were alone. After a moment of consideration and Sherlock's jacket being tossed away, they slowed things down. Preferring to take their time for this celebratory intimacy.

 _I love you, I need you, I never want to let you go._

They whispered their vows between tangled sheets and soft kisses, promising a future in their crazy busy lives, promising devotion and love when neither of them expected it, predicting years to come and memories created.

Eventually, after thoroughly celebrating, they curled up together and fell asleep. Both completely happy, both extremely satisfied, both entirely loved.


	51. Chapter 51

The flight from London to Mycroft's private island in the Caribbean was a long one, but with the time difference, they made it in time to catch the early afternoon sun. The island itself was a paradise of tropical forests and natural waterfalls, aside from main house where Sherlock and Natasha would be spending the duration of their honeymoon.

A cleaning staff was hired to make routine visits traveled from a populated island nearby and were paid handsomely for their services. Just before Sherlock and Natasha's arrival, the house had been cleaned, the kitchen had been stocked, the snorkeling and diving gear had been given proper maintenance, and all boats, jet skis, and of course the yacht as well, had been readied for their guests. Besides the flight crew who'd soon be making their departure, the newlyweds had the island all to themselves. Everyone else was only a phone call away.

The house was a masterpiece of polished wood, gleaming floors, and glass walls and windows throughout. Naturally, curtains could be drawn should the inhabitants want or need privacy, but otherwise the sun and island breeze streamed in through most rooms uninhibited. The bedroom in particular had the benefit of an ocean view and direct access to the beach.

Natasha helped carry the luggage inside the house while carrying the high heeled sandals she'd changed into on the plane after their flight in her free hand. She'd also chosen a white cotton sundress for the occasion and let her hair down completely. She still couldn't stop smiling, but she figured it was too soon to stop anyway. Somewhere within the house, perhaps the bedroom if she had to guess, she knew her gift for Sherlock had been set out. She'd wrapped it in black and red before she'd sent it, but would wait until later to seek it out.

Right then, she was more concerned with the man beside her and with the idea that for the next few days, it'd be like they were the only two people in the world. She glanced at him over her shoulder once they'd entered the house. "Your brother doesn't do anything halfway, does he?"

"Never." Sherlock said with a small smirk. He was still wearing trousers, though it was a light fabric. His button up dress shirt was also a light fabric, but he'd left several of the buttons undone when they stepped off the plane. His eyes traveled over the interior of the house, somewhere he'd only ever been once and nodded again. "I'm surprised it didn't take more convincing to let us use it for this purpose."

"Maybe he plans on redecorating once we leave," she joked. "Replace every piece of furniture we might've made use of with something new." She paused once Sherlock had closed the door behind him. "Where should we set up?"

"Master Bedroom is that way." Sherlock stepped forward and pointed. "Then we can decide what we want to do for the rest of the day, between the hiking, beach, and bedroom, or whatever else you can come up with."

Natasha moved in the direction he'd pointed. "Well you know me, I can come up with plenty. We can scope out what's available after we're settled in," she decided. "I'm including dinner somewhere on that list, though."

"Me too, kitchen should be stocked with basic meals that we can just heat up and serve. No need to burn the house down." Sherlock said, putting their luggage on the bed once they found their bedroom. He glanced at her and offered a soft smile. "Acceptable?"

"Acceptable," Natasha replied with a soft smile of her own once she'd dropped her own bag next to his. "So..." She came to stand in front of him and circled her arms around his waist. "Do you want your present now?"

"You got me a present?"

"Yep," she answered, nodding once. "It's no big deal," she assured him. "And it can wait until later, if you prefer."

"I'll admit you have me curious…can I have it now?" He asked, giving her a convincing smile, the one he used to get what he wanted.

Natasha gave him a bit of a _look_ but broke out in a smile of her own. "How can I say no to that smile? Especially on our honeymoon." She raised herself up on tiptoe and pulled him down for a quick kiss before she let him go. "I need to find it first. I sent it ahead so I wouldn't have to pack it."

"Can't imagine the steps you had to take to get it sent here…since I didn't know about it."

"Suffice it to say, I had to take a lot of steps to both acquire the whole thing and send it over without you finding out," she confirmed while she searched, finally finding the large box on a shelf inside the walk in closet. "It was a fun challenge," she added once she'd carried it over to the bed and set it down. Inside were all three leather bound apiculture tomes she'd commissioned, as well as the African queen bee encased in glass. It was a heavy box, and she fidgeted nervously with the bow before stepping back and settling her hands on her hips. "Go ahead."

Sherlock eyed her, deducing and all observant in an attempt to figure it out. But in no time he was carefully and delicately removing the shiny black paper. He took off the bow and stuck it on his head.

He pulled the glass that held the bee first, his expression unreadable as he studied it. Blue eyes fixed on the perfectly preserved specimen. He peeked inside the box next, reaching for the books. His thumb gently ran over the leather bindings as he held them. He was speechless, a rare occurrence indeed, until he cleared his throat and tore his eyes away from the gift and turned them on his new wife. He spoke quietly, reverently. "I…I think this is very special. Thank you."

"I wanted to... to show you that I'm in this for the long haul. In my own way." Natasha approached him slowly and reached for the bow he'd stuck on his head, meeting his eyes with a hesitant smile. "I'm supposed to say 'you're welcome' here, right?"

"I think so." Sherlock said, gently setting the glass and books down so he could turn his attention to her completely. "But it's not necessary, we have our own way for doing things." He said and then pulled her in for a very fierce kiss to show his appreciation.

Natasha wrapped her arms around his neck and signaled what she was going to do a beat before she swiftly jumped into his arms, to eliminate the height difference between them. "I like our way of doing things," she told him breathlessly when she broke for air.

"Me too." Sherlock said, holding her up with ease. He'd been working out frequently in addition to his usual casework, so the task was simple, even with his shoulder not yet at full strength. He rested his forehead against hers. "Now, to the beach or to the bed. I have a schedule, but it's flexible."

"If I we get in bed now we won't be leaving for a good long while," she replied with a quiet laugh. "Beach first?"

"Deal. Bikini?" He asked quickly.

"Mmhm," she hummed in the affirmative. "I brought mine," she said with a cheeky smile. "Did you bring yours?"

Sherlock chuckled, the sound rumbling low in his chest. "No, but I got a new pair of trunks I'm sure you'll like."

"I like pretty much anything on you," Natasha quipped. "Or off you," she added. "Do you need help changing?"

"No, I think I can handle that myself. You got to strip me last night, shouldn't that be enough for you?" He retorted teasingly as he loosened his hold on her and set her back on the ground.

"Not nearly enough but I'll settle for stripping you later tonight," she replied once she was on her own two feet and reaching for her bag. "I didn't hurt your shoulder, did I?"

"Nope. I'm doing rather well actually. Good timeing, due to the plans I've got over the next few days." He winked at her, grabbing his bag and pulling out the pair of black swim shorts he'd bought in preparation for the trip.

Natasha eyed the shorts after she took out her own black bikini and broke out in a half smile. "I do like black on you," she commented. "Any chance I could convince you to divulge the details of these plans I keep hearing about?"

"Nope, because this, my love, is my gift to you." Sherlock said with a wink, unbuttoning his shirt quickly. "Could play a guessing game, if you'd like. Deductions."

"Could," Natasha agreed as she zipped herself out of her dress and exchanged it for her bathing suit. "Or I could attempt to interrogate you instead."

"Either way…" Sherlock stole a glance at her as he slipped out of his trousers and pulled on his swim shorts. "…I'd likely enjoy it."

Natasha flashed him a smile and pulled her hair over her shoulder with one hand while holding up the front portion of her top with the other. "Then maybe a little bit of both?"

"I really wouldn't expect anything else."


	52. Chapter 52

By the time Sherlock and Natasha wandered back inside the honeymoon house, their skin was sun kissed in matching shades of red and their curls were a sandy mess. They'd taken to the water while the sun was out, with Natasha shooting questions and making deductions Sherlock evaded or refused to confirm amidst splashes of water and salty kisses. Then when the sun began to set, Natasha swam over to suggest walking along the beach and wound up wrapped up in Sherlock's arms instead. They'd barely made it inside the house before they peeled off what little fabric there was between them and collapsed on the bed, still half occupied by their bags. They barely spared a glance their way, busy as they were with exploring each other in one of their preferred ways.

When they finally managed to untangle themselves from each other and climb out of the mess they'd made of their bed, it was time for dinner. Sherlock had been correct. There were plenty of meals, all prepared and in need of reheating, waiting for them in the state of the art kitchen. Natasha recounted the steps she'd taken to keep Sherlock's gift a secret while he went about reheating their food, but only managed it halfway through her story before he figured out the rest. He delivered his explanation in his usual quick way, earning himself an appreciative kiss from Natasha for his deductive skills. They didn't even try to make it back to the bedroom before their hands strayed beneath clothes and over bare skin.

They made it to bed eventually, and late the next morning they woke for breakfast and a ride in Mycroft's speedboat. Sherlock drove it out but eventually handed over the controls to give Natasha a turn, swiftly wrapping his arms around her before they picked up enough speed. They didn't talk much, but then they didn't have to. They enjoyed the quiet with each other as much as they enjoyed their conversations, and alone as they were, there was little need for words. They were in sync, Natasha would've said. Sherlock would've gone with harmonious. The meaning was the same; they were attuned to each other, they understood each other, and they craved each other's company with or without words.

The next couple of days went by in a similar fashion. They raced jet skis, explored the island, rode the speedboat, or scuba dived during the day. They had lunch and then took to the beach, for dips or walks late in the afternoon. They watched the sunset, sometimes while sharing a glass of wine. They shared dinner and quiet conversation, more often than not interspersed with quiet laughter. They explored each other every chance they got. Desperate and passionate. Slow and thorough. Everything in between. Sometimes they made it to the bedroom and sometimes not, but each time was equally loving and equally fervent. They reminded each other without words that they were completely vulnerable but completely safe with each other, and would be for a long time to come.

One morning found them awake a little later than usual, but well rested and in the mood to explore. Sherlock already had something in mind, but secretive as ever didn't let the location slip until they were close enough that Natasha could just about hear the rush of water breaking against rocks if she tipped her head to the side just right. "Waterfall?"

"Took you long enough." Sherlock quipped, glancing over his shoulder at her with a cheeky smirk. "Mycroft assures me the pool at the bottom is deep enough to swim in."

Natasha gave his arm a playful swat. "Are you teasing your wife, Mr. Holmes?"

"I don't know, maybe you should ask her." He responded, taking a few extra long strides to get away from another such swat.

"I will if I can find her." Natasha gave chase and swatted his rear with a cheeky smile of her own. "Lucky woman."

"Crazy woman, actually." Sherlock corrected, rubbing his bum with a good natured pout. "Fascinating though, never boring."

"Then maybe you're both a little lucky and a little crazy," she teased as they cleared the tree line and came upon the pool at the bottom of the waterfall itself. Her lips spread in a bright smile, green eyes sweeping over the powerful rush of water. "It's beautiful."

"It is." Sherlock glanced at her again, barely concealing a smile, and then turned his attention back to the water cascading down the rocks. After a moment of appreciation, he pointed them on. "Lead the way, Princess."

"Yes sir." Natasha walked the edge of the pool to a gathering of rocks, where they could leave their shoes and shirts. It was mostly a steep drop to the water below, except for a gentle slope nearing the dense cloud of spray created by the waterfall. She toed off her shoes. "Jump in or wade in?"

"Make a deduction." Came the muffled reply through the t-shirt Sherlock was trying to pull off.

"I could... but it occurs to me there's a third option here," she said innocently, ridding herself of her own shirt and shorts.

Sherlock's shirt landed on the ground and he ruffled wild curly black hair as he toed off his shoes, dropping his phone somewhere safe. "Third option…?"

Natasha leaned over the edge to eye the water below. It was safe enough to jump, but she had something else in mind. _Similar_ , but still something else. She gauged the height and checked for rock formations that might hinder their jump in the bloodiest of ways. Satisfied with what she found, she took several steps back and looked him over.

"Together," she answered finally and with a running start tackled her husband into the water without further notice.

Sherlock went over the edge with a yelp he'd later deny. Tangled up with his wife, they hit the water together in a big splash. He got his act together quickly and long limbs brought them both to the surface, because he wasn't about to let her go. Once above the surface, he drew in a deep breath and brushed his wet curls out of his eyes. "Minx."

"You love me," she retorted with a breathless laugh.

"Unfortunately." Sherlock quipped, diving in for a wet kiss. He pulled away again. "I love you very much."

"I love you too," Natasha replied with a tender smile, stealing another quick kiss and resting her forehead against his. "Unfortunately," she added as a tease.

Sherlock chuckled and pulled her a bit closer as he kicked them towards the veil of mist from the waterfall. "Are you enjoying our first sex holiday, Agent Romanova?"

Natasha hummed in the affirmative. "So much, in fact, that I wouldn't mind repeating it in the future if we can spare the time." She wrapped her arms around his neck and studied his water speckled features. "What about you? I was afraid you'd be bored by now."

"Not really, surprisingly. Solved three cases by email yesterday, and I have you to distract me otherwise. Not sure I could live on an island paradise forever, but I'd enjoy the occasional holiday if we spared the time."

"I feel the same way," she agreed. "Besides, I'd miss going on missions with you," she admitted. "I like having you all to myself on an island paradise, but not at the expense of everything else..." She smiled softly. "I think part of the holiday charm is that it ends eventually, so we make the most of the time we do have together. And we _have_ made the most of our time. I think we've christened every room in that house."

"I particularly enjoyed the sunroom, and the kitchen. All of them, really." Sherlock said with a reminiscent smirk. "I'd also like to try the beach before we leave…if that's something you're interested in."

"It's something I'd be _very_ interested in," she assured him. "I might even be interested in trying this waterfall."

Sherlock quirked a brow, playing aloof. "Would you now? You did tackle me into the water, I'm not sure I want to."

Natasha pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "I could make it up to you though," she played along. "It's only fair, right? I could've gotten you hurt."

"You could have." Sherlock agreed impassively. "I recall getting swatted twice on the way here as well. You have plenty to answer for."

"I do, don't I?" Natasha agreed, flashing an apologetic smile that hinted at her thorough enjoyment of the game. "Will you let me make it up to you?" She tangled a hand in his wet curls and dipped her head to brush her lips down his neck. "I promise you won't regret it."

Sherlock's small moan of response was involuntary and he would have cursed himself for the slip if he wasn't enjoying it. He recovered by tilting his head just slightly, but otherwise not moving. "I think I can fit it into my schedule now, if you wanted to _attempt_ to make it up to me."

Natasha wrapped her legs around his waist beneath the water. "I'll try very, very hard," she promised against his skin between feather light kisses. "I wouldn't want my husband to go back home from his honeymoon... disappointed."

Sherlock was losing composure. After closing his eyes, he made another quiet noise. His hands slipped up her bare back, fiddling just slightly with the band of her bikini. "Hmm…not disappointed at all. I feel as if satisfied in…umm a plethora of ways is…more likely."

Natasha smiled and pulled back to catch his lips in fervent kiss, one hand behind his neck while the other explored the planes of his chest. "Then let me apologize good and proper for swatting..." She pulled further back to meet his eyes. "And tackling you. Just to make sure." She stole another kiss and lingered close. "Deal?"

"Minx." He repeated and then initiated another kiss, for he was having a difficult time getting coherent words out. "Deal."

They both moved in to kiss each other with scalding hot intensity, no longer holding back for the sake of the game. They reluctantly loosened their hold on each other just enough to deal with their bathing suits, but eager hands and nimble fingers made quick work of the barriers. Before they had a chance to miss the contact, they were once again pulling each other close amidst breathless whispers and appreciative moans that were drowned just as quickly by the roaring waterfall beside them. It was only long moments later, with flushed cheeks, kiss swollen lips and ragged breaths, that they stilled in each other's arms and caught each other in a slower, more tender kiss. "How was that?"

"I'll let you know when my brain turns back on." Sherlock said breathlessly, his hands still moving over her body in the water. "But I'm…quite certain that makes up for something that I can't remember…I'll get you back on the beach."

Natasha turned her face towards his neck and peppered kisses down its slope, not ready to let him go just yet. "I look forward to it," she panted. "To all of it," she added with a smile, this time referring to their future life together.

"I am too." He smiled just a bit, his eyes still closed and his expression otherwise relaxed. He breathed her in as they spent a few more moments in silence, just holding each other. Eventually, his eyes opened and he glanced at the cascade of water with the same smile. "Very enjoyable hike, should have done this days ago."

"Should've," she agreed without moving. "You think we'll have time for one more hike before we leave?"

"Yep, that was the point of this trek. Though I don't mind the deviation from the plan at all." Sherlock replied, sneaking a kiss to her head.

Natasha smiled. "I like the deviation from the plan," she replied. "I'm sure you could tell. I didn't exactly keep quiet."

"That fact was obvious."

Lifting her head, she stole a quick kiss and turned a bit to study the waterfall through squinted eyes. "You know I can't remember the last time I took an actual vacation. I don't think I ever really have."

"It's been since secondary school for me. All of my traveling abroad has been work related." Sherlock kept his eyes on her, smiling softly. "It's not horrid, there's been a few positive elements."

"The company's not bad," she agreed with a teasing smile.

"Certainly not bad at all. And we haven't burned down the house yet, much to everyone's surprise I'm sure."

Natasha chuckled quietly and turned in his arms so that her back was pressed against his chest and her head rested on his shoulder. "Don't rule it out," she said, and closed her eyes. "We've still got a couple of days left. We're just lucky neither one of us has had to cook. My skills in the kitchen are bad, but so are yours."

"My skills are much better in the field or in the laboratory." Sherlock agreed, readjusting his arms around her in their new position. "My list of attributes for a potential partner did not include kitchen skills, and we can eat basically anywhere we like for reduced price, it's not the end of the world."

"It's not." Natasha smiled faintly. "And we've seen the end of the world already a couple of times, so we'd know." She paused. "I'm curious now about that list of attributes for a potential partner."

"Hmm, of course you are." Sherlock said vaguely. "Haven't you done that?"

"Maybe." Natasha turned her head and tipped it back so she could catch a glimpse of his face. "Why? Curious?"

"Maybe. Are you?"

"A little," Natasha admitted. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

Sherlock smiled back, enigmatic and soft. "It doesn't matter, does it? All you need do to find your answer is look in the mirror."

Natasha turned so that she was fully facing him and kissed him softly, reverently. "Goes both ways," she spoke when she broke away.

"We're on the same page then, as usual." Sherlock said, slipping a hand into her wet hair to cradle her head. "And I am quite glad I chose your doorstep to nearly die on."

"I'm glad I dragged you inside with me instead of shooting you," she said. "I'm also glad I made every decision I've made since. It probably sounds overly sentimental... but they led me home."

Sherlock tightened his arms around her. "A bit sentimental, yes. But if there's a time to be sentimental, I believe it to be on one's honeymoon." He stole a gentle kiss. "And you're my home too, forever now."

"Forever," she agreed. "I love you, Charming. I love every last bit of you..." Kissing him one more time, she pulled back to rest her forehead against his. "And I'm all yours."

The course of the next few days were a bit of a blur of repeated vows, christening of the various surfaces in the house, conversing in Russian and English, and just enjoying each others company. During downtimes, Sherlock would be on his computer, typing away and solving cases from an ocean away. Natasha would be reading, mission reports or something of that nature, usually sneaking peeks of her focused husband when he wasn't paying attention. Even on their honeymoon, work wasn't too far away. But that was one of the benefits of being them, they understood their separate needs to stay busy.

Either way, it wouldn't be too long before they were pulling the clothes off of each other again.

Sherlock planned the last night on the beach, something accidentally romantic, and all together fun. After a quiet dinner, they'd watched the sun set into the water with a glass of champagne and quiet understanding. There wasn't talk of Sherlock's recent near death experience, nor of Natasha's time in the now destroyed Red Room. They left that alone, buried like both of their broken pasts. Their conversation was about the future, one-year plans, ten-year plans, retirement. Life had a funny way of throwing things for a loop, but they'd decided as long as they had each other everything would turn out right.

And after the stars started peeking out of the navy blue sky, Sherlock pulled Natasha into a gentle kiss. They were done talking, and it didn't take very long for the kiss to deepen and the clothes to be discarded. They made love under the stars, with the roar of the waves in their ears, the soft towel as a cushion spread over the sun-warmed sand.

It had never been just about sex for them, even at the very beginning. Sherlock had been grateful, and Natasha had been curious, and that had grown into so much more. More than either one of them could imagine. Husband and wife, friends and lovers and partners, sharing complete trust and vulnerability. Family together and forever. Human, not machine or monster.

They were _home._


	53. Chapter 53

Tokyo's bustling streets flashed past the unmarked black sedan driving Sherlock and Natasha to the location of their latest mission. In the six months they'd been married, they'd been on several such missions already. They'd even pulled John along for one of them, and Steve along for two others. All success stories, and all with hints of danger. They worked together like a well-oiled machine, but they knew that. They knew that three years ago. The Consulting Detective and the Black Widow.

Currently they were posing as Russian invitees at a gala event being hosted by Sadashi Matsunaga, whose name meaning 'ambitious one' fit her like a fine leather glove. The event was set to take place within the building of Matsunaga's pharmaceutical corporation, Jeneshisu.

Jeneshisu was only one of several corporations owned by a terrorist group called The Hand. Their history went back centuries, but several of its high-ranking members had been captured in recent years. The British government alone held twelve such members.

Two months back, MI6 got word that The Hand planned on unleashing a toxin on the London population to force the British government into negotiations. The antidote in exchange for its twelve members. Mycroft Holmes was brought in to consult on the matter, but his answer came swiftly. They had to eliminate the toxin before The Hand grew aware that their plan had been revealed.

The toxin was located within a month and a half, but its location made it nearly impossible to successfully retrieve and destroy. Mycroft suggested negotiating with the Japanese government, considering it was a threat on their soil. The Japanese government refused to act against members of their own population without solid proof of their involvement. Mycroft only had the word of one of his agents regarding The Hand's plan and the toxin's location. He suspected the latter was the problem. Matsunaga was powerful, wealthy and cunning. No one would be entering Jeneshisu, let alone infiltrating its state of the art lab and destroying the toxin, without her noticing and retaliating.

Faced with the conundrum, Mycroft called the only two people he knew could get the job done without initiating an international incident or putting people's lives at risk. Newlyweds Sherlock Holmes and Natasha Romanoff boarded a private plane for briefing only two hours later.

They were given Russian covers. Sherlock turned into Vladislav Melnikoff (Vlad to his friends), a wealthy Russian businessman interested in investing on Jeneshisu's experimental science division. Natasha turned into his girlfriend of the week, Galina Sokolov. They were given a luxurious penthouse as their cover, complete with a glass wall through which shone an impressive view of the lighted city. Mycroft secured invitations to Matsunaga's gala.

Fifteen minutes after they confirmed the event was in full swing, Sherlock and Natasha boarded their designated car in full evening-wear. Sherlock wore a bespoke tuxedo that matched Natasha's black sequin dress. They hammered out what little details remained on the drive over. Nearing the sleek building that was their destination, they tucked their state of the art earpieces in place and tested them for clarity.

"Ready?" Natasha asked while fixing her dress and arranging her hair in glossy red waves over her shoulder. "I've got what we'll need in my clutch."

"Ready." Sherlock confirmed with a professional nod. His hair was shorter than it had been in a long time, and slicked back in such a way that he was nearly unrecognizable to the casual knowledgeable person.

The car slowed to a stop in front of the building. A moment later they were headed towards the building, Natasha tucked on Sherlock's arm. He kept a relatively impassive face, putting on the persona that was their cover.

The invitations Mycroft had procured got them right in the front door of the building. The event was being held in one of the convention rooms on the ground floor of the pharmaceutical company's headquarters. Above them were the offices and laboratories, one of which housed the toxin.

Their plan was simple, but revolved around a number of different factors. But they'd be working in tangent, as the well-oiled machine that their mission partnership was. Sherlock glanced down at Natasha after they'd made their appearance, speaking in Russian. " _Where to first, dear?"_

 _"Dance with me first,"_ Natasha replied with a flirty smile. _"You can make the rounds afterwards."_

Matsunaga was watching their arrival with interest, as expected. Natasha surmised a show of Sherlock's skills on the dance floor would reel the woman in, and she'd be able to slip away unnoticed.

" _As you wish"_ Sherlock said, stepping the few paces to the dance floor. He took control, as his cover would have been, spinning her quickly and pulling her to him. They were close, but able to look over each other's shoulder at the people mingling and talking around them. Sherlock's quick mind pulled deductions out of thin air, as always, but never mind that. For the moment it was time to put on a show.

As the music changed again, Sherlock spun her out in a dramatic fashion, giving her a look that would challenge her to keep up with him. More of a prod than anything else, for he knew her abilities.

Natasha's sequined dress moved with her, providing a glimpse of bare leg where the long slit split the gleaming fabric. Her brow lifted as her lips twitched with the faintest of smirks, fingertips tingling with the thrill of a challenge. Her hips swayed briefly and her eyes strayed to look over his shoulder where Matsunaga was watching with piqued interest.

" _We have an audience_ ," she told him quietly.

" _Of course we do, you look ravishing."_ Sherlock replied with a cocky smirk, settling his hand low on her hip as he brought her in again. " _As do I. That was the point, I believe. Let me spin you again and we'll get to work."_

 _"Show off,"_ she teased playfully. " _Do it now. I think she's coming our way fully intending to cut in."_

" _Yes ma'am."_ Sherlock smirked again, and threw her out again. He loved dancing, and they were both very skilled, so it was showy and dramatic. He winked at her and spun her back in, adding a low dip after he'd caught her. He didn't kiss her, as much as he wanted to, but instead whispered a quiet Russian 'I love you' and pulled her back up again. " _Thank you for the dance."_

 _"You're very welcome,"_ she replied with a dazzling smile and a quick caress of his cheek that would still be in character for her cover. _"I'll see you soon."_

Natasha reluctantly pulled herself out of her husband's arms and breezed past Matsunaga towards the elevators where she'd cajole a security guard into showing her the security surveillance room she needed to get to. Jeneshisu's CEO gave her a brief once over before she fixed her eyes on Sherlock and extended a hand.

"My assistant informs me you are Vladislav Melnikoff," she said by way of greeting. "It is a pleasure."

"Sadashi Matsunaga." Sherlock said in his light Russian accent. He took her hand and bowed to kiss the back of it. "The pleasure is all mine. Please, call me Vlad."

"Vlad," Matsunaga repeated in acknowledgement as she drew closer. "Your skills are not limited to the business world, I noticed," she continued. "I do love a man who dances."

"And I do love a beautiful woman," he replied with an easy smile. "Could you spare a dance for me?"

"Absolutely," Matsunaga replied immediately. "Your... date won't mind?"

"Not at all." Sherlock said, pulling their hostess closer as the next song started. "She's beautiful, yes, but rather slow at times. There is more than just beauty which makes a woman worth…dancing with. Power…intelligence…it's a rare combination."

Matsunaga smiled suggestively. "It is also rare to find a man who appreciates a strong woman to... dance with," she commented. "I confess I have a particular weakness for such men... and blue eyes."

" _I made it to the surveillance room_ ," Natasha's voice drifted through the comm device in Sherlock's ear, amidst the sounds of quiet typing. " _I'm looping the video now_ ," she added without expecting reply. _"You have about ten minutes to steal her card, unless she decides to pounce on you and derail our plans."_

"I've been told I'm rather distinctive, in more ways than one." Sherlock replied unabashedly, guiding them around the dance floor with his usual grace. He took note of what Natasha said. "But I also always make it a point to do business before pleasure. Your work with biochemical engineering is quite interesting. It…drew me in."

"So I hear," Matsunaga said smoothly. "I also hear you are interested in funding our work," she added. "I'd like to secure such a thing, if you are indeed serious about your offer."

"Which is why I'm here." He replied. "To ensure the partner is worth the dance. I prefer seeing things with my own eyes than relying on the word of another."

"Wise man," she agreed. "What would I need to do to ensure our venture is worth the risk? I could offer a detailed overview of our plans, if you like. Perhaps arrange for a tour of our facilities at a future date?"

"A tour would be icing on the cake, as they say." Sherlock said. "But perhaps later in the evening we can discuss the overview. I'd like another dance with you, but I'm sure you have other business to attend to."

"I do," she confirmed. "I'm sure I could also make time for another dance and conversation with you later tonight. If you're still interested... come find me in a few hours."

Natasha spoke again through Sherlock's earpiece. " _Surveillance feed is looped and set to wipe itself clean by midnight. It'll be as if we were never here,_ " she announced. " _I'll meet you in elevator three._ "

"I think we can do that." Sherlock replied to both of them. He spun her out in a dramatic move. When he pulled her back in for a low dip, he swiped the keycard from her hip, and smiled down at her before he pulled her back up. "Thank you for the dance, I look forward to the next one."

"As I do." Matsunaga smiled and smoothed a hand over his chest, flashing a promising smile as she sauntered off to tend to her next prospective client.

Sherlock held the cocky smirk as he turned around and disappeared into the crowd. He found his way to elevator three, fixing his hair slightly and ensuring that no one's wandering eyes found him. Natasha was waiting as expected and he gave her a nod as a greeting. "Ready?"

Natasha plucked the card out of his hand to swipe it, and winked. "Ready," she confirmed. "I got Matsunaga's print off a glass she'd been drinking from before she danced with you, but the password's going to come down to your deductions. I can't hack it without setting off alarms."

"How many tries at the password would you say?" Sherlock asked.

Natasha opened the small clutch she'd brought with her while she thought. "This particular security system allows for a maximum of three tries," she said. "To be safe, I'd try to get it in two."

"I will get it in two." Sherlock said confidently, glancing over his shoulder once. "I've got a pretty good idea."

"I'm sure you do, _lyubimiy._ " Natasha smiled as elevator doors opened and handed him a pair of gloves.

Sherlock took the gloves and stepped into the elevator behind her as he slipped them on. "Anything else to know?"

"Yeah, I put the two idiots in surveillance to sleep," she informed him once she'd pushed the proper button. "It'll be as if they fell asleep naturally. They shouldn't notice anything amiss, but we should still hurry just in case."

"I can hurry." Sherlock said, fidgeting with his hands as they ascended to the proper floor. He glanced down at her as the doors opened again and winked, "lead the way, _milii moi._ "

Natasha led him to the second security measure, a password protected heavy metal door, with a smile. "Have I mentioned how much I like it when you sweet talk me in Russian? Because I do."

"I deduced as much, we'll get to that later…" Sherlock said, but it was slightly distracted as he looked over the door. He had about four ideas for a possible password, if he was reading her correctly. Why people didn't just use a random word or series of numbers, he'd never know.

He stared at the small computer screen, tuning out the world around him, and put in the first word. Matsunaga was a powerful, driven, and intelligent woman. Proud of her accomplishments, and slightly narcissistic. And that was where he'd succeed.

He took a moment to examine the console, the keyboard was the standard alphabet only, without the added Japanese characters, which meant his hunch that the password was in English was more than a hunch. Mindful of the timetable, but wanting to make sure it was done properly, Sherlock hesitated a moment before he started typing. Balance of probability and the fact that the shift bar was hardly used suggested that it was all lower case, so he typed the word 'ambition' and waited.

A moment later the computer unlocked the door and he breathed a sigh of relief. "People really need to use random numbers or words for this sort of thing."

Natasha hummed her agreement while she fiddled with the small finger print duplicator masquerading as her phone. "I always do," she said out loud. "I also change it periodically, depending on the device." She looked up and eyed him with a hint of pride. "Got it in one try? I'm thinking we should wrap this up as soon as possible for a proper reward..."

Smiling slowly, she slipped past the open doors to the next security checkpoint. A thumb print scan about to be duped by a plastic covering simulating actual skin on her own thumb. She pressed it to the surface after a quick study of the device embedded into the wall, making sure their security intel corresponded with the reality. "You handle destroying the toxin and I'll do the same with the antidote?"

"Deal." Sherlock nodded once as he waited for her. "Let's hope the intel is correct and it can be destroyed without issue. Otherwise we'll both be dead."

"Death _would_ put a damper on our plans," she replied with a bit of a smile, and not a second later, the doors to the lab swooshed open beside her. "Let's go."


	54. Chapter 54

Sherlock followed Natasha into the lab, two pairs of eyes sweeping the area for people, unknown security devices, cameras, or other threats. Upon evaluation that it was safe, the pair of them got to work, Sherlock headed for the most likely location for the toxin, the biohazard refrigerators along the far wall.

Natasha walked over to the fridges lined up in the opposite direction, donning her own pair of gloves to keep from leaving prints. She searched unit after unit until she found what she was looking for. Sherlock had the more dangerous substance to take care of but she was still careful going about her task. She never stopped counting down the time inside her head.

Twenty minutes before they drew too close to their deadline, she replaced the tampered with antidote samples in the fridge. Come morning, they'd be discovered and deemed unviable. She and Sherlock would be long gone and not a trace of their tampering would be left in their wake, except the destroyed samples.

"Done," she called out.

Sherlock had focused intensely on the task at hand. They were relying on his knowledge of chemistry to ensure that the toxin was destroyed correctly, and he delivered.

Long minutes later, he was disposing of his nitrile gloves and putting his leather ones back on as he stepped away from the incinerator. "Good to go, and I'm quite confident we aren't going to die. Shall we, _lyubov moya_?"

Natasha tossed away her own gloves before she pulled him down to steal a quick kiss, now that their job was almost completely done. "Absolutely, _dorogoy_."

Sherlock and Natasha retraced their steps to the party, stopping to dispose of Matsunaga's access key along the way as though she'd dropped it accidentally. Natasha pulled Sherlock aside to alter both their appearances. She messed with his hair, untied his bow tie, and left a smear of lipstick on the collar of his shirt. She had him ruffle her own hair and smeared her make up just a bit. Their absence, if noted, could be explained away by saying they'd disappeared for a bit of quality time somewhere private. Their early departure from the party could be explained the same way.

Satisfied with the results, she eyed him again. "Car should be waiting for us out front." She flashed him a quick smile. "Put your arm around me."

Sherlock smirked a bit, ruffling his hair one more time with his free hand as he looped his arm around her shoulders. He settled his hand on her waist and pulled her close as they headed back into the main party area. " _I did promise our hostess another dance, but I think I have a fairly good excuse to skip it_." He commented quietly, keeping his expression a neutral smug.

 _"You can always say you changed your mind if she comes over to say goodbye and brings it up,_ " Natasha continued in Russian with a bit of a self-satisfied smile of her own to keep up their cover. _"If you still feel like dancing... you can dance with me later."_

" _That was on the agenda."_ Sherlock confirmed quickly. " _A private dance in celebration."_

 _"I look forward to it._ " Natasha snuck a peek just past Sherlock, towards the crowd of people dancing and milling about. " _She's got her back to us for now... so let's make it quick._ "

Sherlock whispered his agreement and continued the charade until they were safely out the door. Their hostess didn't notice their exit, nor did they get a second glance from anyone at the party. Mission successful. He texted their driver, and soon they were sliding into the back of the car. Sherlock dropped the accent, but the smug expression wasn't part of the act, and he leaned back in his seat. "That went rather well, I think."

"I agree," Natasha replied, this time with a genuine smile as she pulled out a mirror to fix her hair and makeup. "We didn't die and we got the job done without arousing suspicion. I count that as a win when so many of the missions your brother sends us on are so risky." She put away her mirror and flashed him another smile. "Not that I'm complaining."

"I'm not complaining either, that's what makes it fun." He winked at her. "Aside from the near death experiences, of course."

"Near death experiences do have their appeal..." Natasha slipped her hand behind his neck and drew him in for a kiss. "And so do you."

"Hmm, fairly simple deduction." Sherlock said against her lips. "You did very well, by the way."

"I know," she answered confidently. "And so did you. I thought Matsunaga was going to pounce on you right there on the dance floor."

Sherlock huffed in amusement, putting his arm around her. "Just my natural charm, and part of the job.'

Natasha stole another kiss. "You can be pretty _charming_ ," she teased. "Very hard to resist."

"I know." He said without hesitation, bringing his free hand up to gently caress her cheek. "See, even you cannot help it."

"Good thing I don't have to." Natasha closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. "One of the perks of being married to you."

"One of many." Sherlock stole a kiss now that her eyes were closed, pulling her closer.

Natasha's arms wrapped around his neck and in one swift move she straddled his lap, a task made easier by the slit in the skirt of her evening dress. The windows of their car were tinted black, as was the barrier that separated the back seat from the front seat occupied by their driver. For all intents and purposes they had more than enough privacy, but Natasha still broke away to catch her breath. She reached for his wrist to look at his watch. "How long have we been on the road?" She asked breathlessly. "Maybe ten minutes? I think we're close to the penthouse."

Sherlock blinked his eyes open, taking a second to orientate himself. His hands were still comfortably resting on her hips. "I'mmm, yes, about ten minutes. We should be there very soon. Good thing."

" _Very_ good thing," Natasha agreed before catching his lips in another kiss. "I'm in the mood to be pinned against a wall."

"Then it is advantageous I'm in the mood to do the pinning." Sherlock exhaled a chuckle when they broke apart again.

Natasha exhaled a laugh of her own, but didn't move off his lap or stop catching him in slow kisses until their car stopped in front of their building and their driver opened the door for them. He cleared his throat, and resting her forehead against Sherlock's for a moment, Natasha resisted the urge to glare at their driver. "Hold that thought," she whispered, gathering her things and sliding off his lap to step out of the car.

Sherlock didn't bother feeling embarrassed, but instead thanked their driver (who'd be paid by Mycroft by the end of their time in Japan) and took Natasha's hand as they entered the building. The penthouse they were using was modern and spacious, with large windows that looked over the lighted city. It had been equipped with everything they needed to succeed in their mission.

All that didn't matter to Sherlock and Natasha, for they were more interested in celebrating with each other than anything else. They barely made it through the door before Sherlock lost his jacket and pulled Natasha in for a fervent kiss.

He'd already scoped out a wall and pinned her against it just a moment after his nimble fingers slipped the expensive dress off of her shoulders. She'd been busy as well, and his shirt was open and untucked, his slicked back hair now more of the curly mess that it usually was.

They lost themselves in their dance, exploring and experimenting even well over three years since the first time they engaged in each other. They whispered Russian endearments in between fervent kisses and wandering hands. They loved each other, from the excitement of a job well done, to the newlywed life they were living, love permeated their very being. And they enjoyed demonstrating that in a varying amount of ways.

Fast and passionate now, there were plans to fall into bed to continue with a slow and gentle experience later. And eventually they stilled amidst ragged breathing and lipstick marks, Sherlock's arm braced against the wall, and the other one holding her up. He closed his eyes and rested his head against hers. "Are you alright?" He asked in between breaths.

Natasha took a moment to gather her thoughts and form a coherent response. "Yeah," she panted. "Just need a minute... To catch my breath... _Bozhe moi._.."

Sherlock chuckled quietly, the sound deep in his chest. "Same. Think you can stand?"

"Think so," she breathed as she moved her hands to his shoulders. "Keep your arm around me just to be safe," she added with a bit of a smile.

"Always." He replied, pushing off of the wall as they untangled and got her back on her feet. He kept her close, stealing one more kiss as they steadied. He pulled away, straightening up and looked down at her. "Care for a dance, _lyubimyi?_ An actual dance, I mean."

"I would, actually," Natasha replied with an affectionate smile. "Do you mind if I borrow your shirt?"

"But I like you in that." Sherlock winked at her, but shrugged out of the open shirt he was still wearing. Tossing it at her, he stepped away. "Let me find some clean pants, you got the music."

Natasha eyed him unabashedly once she'd slipped on his shirt, doing up only enough buttons to keep it from falling open before moving towards the stereo. "But I like you in that," she echoed.

"I know." Sherlock quipped, snagging their discarded clothes along the way. A few minutes later he'd returned dressed in naught but his open dressing gown and the aforementioned blue pants.

The music Natasha chose was instrumental and slow, something they'd danced to before. Running her fingers through her hair to tame it a bit, she joined him in the open space near the glass windows overlooking the city. "I do like you in that too," she quipped quietly. "We leave early tomorrow?"

"Yes, should be by the airport around seven." Sherlock said, pulling her close for a romantic dance in the dim light. "Can sleep on the plane, debriefing in the car. Home by late evening."

"Mm, which means we have tonight all to ourselves..." Natasha met his gaze and opened her mouth as if to say something else but was interrupted by her ringing phone. "Spoke too soon." She sighed and tipped her head forward to rest her forehead on her husband's chest. "I'm tempted to ignore it."

Sherlock chuckled again, pressing a kiss to her head. "Go get it, the world might be ending again. I'll get us a glass of wine in the meantime."

"Thanks." Natasha pulled back, reluctantly leaving the safety of his arms. "I still want that dance, though," she called over her shoulder, popping into their room to retrieve her phone.

The caller ID told her it was her doctor in London, so she checked the time. It was an hour to midnight in Tokyo, which put the London call well within reason. Only a couple of days before she'd left on their current assignment, she'd gone to him for an extensive check up in light of a previous mission. Results were due. John made Sherlock do the same thing. Natasha swiped her finger across the screen to take the call and wandered back out of their room to find Sherlock.

Sherlock found an untouched bottle of wine in the kitchen, and was currently going through the motions of opening it and pouring them each a glass. He glanced over at her as she entered the room, attempting the usual deductions, but found himself smiling instead.

Natasha couldn't help returning the smile, but it dimmed just a moment later when he'd looked away. She turned to face the glass wall and the view beyond. Too quiet for Sherlock to hear, she pressed her doctor with several more questions before ending the call with a soft 'thank you'. She was hesitant when she turned towards Sherlock again, visibly tense in her approach. She cleared her throat.

"My doctor," she explained.

"And? Why the phone call?" Sherlock asked, turning with both glasses in his hand and offering one of them to her.

Natasha reached out to take the glass and met his eyes. "I'm pregnant."


	55. Chapter 55

Sherlock blinked at her in the Holmsian way, his grip loosening on his glass to the extent that it nearly slipped through his hand. "Wh-what? You'll have to say that again, because I think I misheard you."

"I'm pregnant." Natasha's voice shook but she pressed forward. "I'm pregnant. _Pregnant_." And then the dam broke, and a tumble of fear and panic and terror flooded out. "But it's impossible, right? I _told_ him it was impossible, but he assured me it wasn't. _Assured_ me, like he'd checked. I told him to check again. I told him there must've been a mistake. I mean, he knows my history. He knows I can't—I can't—"

Sherlock wobbled with the glass and set it down instead of dropping it. "You're pregnant." He repeated, as it really wasn't computing yet. "You're pregnant. You. With...my...child. How…what? But I thought it…I thought you couldn't…is he sure?" His brain was already sorting through, attempting to explain the impossible. Coming up short save for a tiny little hint. "Wasn't there that…that one mission last month, you came back feeling…odd? It healed you, didn't it."

Natasha followed suit with her own glass, setting it down beside his to free her hands before she took to anxious pacing. "Odd is an understatement, but yes," she confirmed, wringing her hands. "I figured it was to be expected, considering I was technically healed over with Asgardian magic or whatever they call it. Jane says it's science. Doesn't matter. I'm rambling. Sherlock," she raked her hands through her hair, "I'm rambling. I don't ramble."

She took a deep breath and padded over to the couch, sinking into it and doubling over to press her forehead to her knees. "I should've asked," she said shakily. "I should've checked right away, I just figured it wasn't possible. Stupid. So, unbelievably stupid of me."

Sherlock hesitated, but followed her to the couch. This was not a situation he had ever planned for, the contingency and next steps did not exist. Sherlock Holmes didn't know what to do. He nimbly sat next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder when she sat up straight, and pulling her close. He slipped into Russian. " _Hey, I've got you."_

Natasha turned her face towards his neck and threw her legs over his lap, tucking herself close to his side with a quiet sniffle. " _I know. I know, I'm sorry I'm..."_ she brought a hand up to angrily swipe at her cheek. _"Are you okay? I've been panicking like the idiot I am and I didn't even stop to ask_." She pressed her hand to his chest, hesitant, slow, fearful. "Are you angry? You have every right to be angry here. Sherlock," she swallowed thickly, "I'm so sorry."

"I'm not angry, Natasha, I'm terrified. I think…" He cleared his throat. "…I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do."

Natasha chewed on her bottom lip, swiping at her cheeks one more time and dabbing the inside corners of her eyes with shaky fingers. "Okay," she said finally, drawing a deep, calming breath to pull herself together. "Okay, here's what we're going do." Pause. "First thing when we get home, I'm going to pay my doctor a visit," she began. "I'm going to need you to come with me, because I'm as terrified as you are... second thing we're going to do is research the hell out of this, as if we were working a case or a mission."

She pulled back and sat up to meet his eyes, legs still stretched out across his lap and hand once again pressed to his chest. She was terrified but so was he. She needed to be level headed. She needed to not panic, because Sherlock needed her to not panic and eventually the baby— _their_ baby, she mentally corrected with a new pang of what was unmistakable affection—would need her to not panic too. She took another deep breath and anchored herself to reality with his beautiful but scared blue eyes. "We can do this. Together, we can do this... right? We just need to be patient with each other. We need to have each other's backs. We need—we need to be a team, and that's something we're actually good at." She hesitated a beat and then gently took his face in both hands, moving in closer. "Third thing we need to do—we need to do right now, actually. I need—I need you to tell me you love me."

"I love you." Sherlock replied without hesitation. Against the cold logic he held so dear, against the work, against decades of drug-abuse and estrangement, he loved her. Love meant teamwork, and self-sacrifice, and commitment. All things he could apply to the little life that they accidentally created. "I promised, whatever happened I'd love you."

Natasha expelled a relieved breath. "I love you too," she replied.

Against a childhood of lessons to the contrary, against years of self preservation, against decades of abuse to rid her of every shred of her humanity, she loved him. And more over, against everything the Red Room had ever taken away from her; her innocence, her autonomy, her body, her feelings, her memories and her choices, she'd created a life with him. Accidentally, but it was still a life, still the beginnings of a family she'd been told she couldn't and would never have, because her purpose was another. No one could take that away from her.

Natasha was quiet a long moment, simply breathing him in while she worked on accepting this new reality. "I'm getting a little emotional here," she admitted, half embarrassed and half absolutely terrified.

"I noticed." Sherlock said, exhaling a nervous laugh of his own. He leaned in and caught her in a gentle kiss, pulling away a moment later. "I said I'd love you anyways." He quipped as he took a deep breath. "It's alright, we'll get through whatever comes our way together. I've got your back."

"And I've got yours," she answered solemnly. "Are you... still interested in that dance?"

"For you? Always."

Natasha smiled faintly. "I'd just like a little bit of normal while we work on processing the news," she admitted. "And I'd like to be held, so it works two ways."

"Logical." Sherlock said, loosening his hold on her as they pulled themselves off of the couch. He kept her close though, even as they shifted back towards the windows. He tapped the stereo on the way and the instrumental music filled the air again. It wasn't an elegant dance, he just wrapped his arms around his _pregnant wife_ and swayed back and forth in the space. They were quiet a long time, just taking comfort in the physical reminder of them being with each other. His head was also spinning around, running in about twelve different directions.

"I'll be with you at the doctor's." He commented, seemingly out of thin air. "We need to get all the information, I deduce you're only about four weeks along, I would have deduced any later than that."

Natasha had her arms around his waist and her head against his chest, eyes half open. "Sneaky as a spy already," she joked quietly, even though her voice was a little shaky. "Your mom's going to be thrilled."

"She will be…but I think we should wait before we tell anyone else. Just to make sure it's all…normal. Considering the Asgardian healing device and all, there are a lot of variables to take into account."

"Mm, I agree," she said thoughtfully. "I should make a few calls, actually. Get the specifics of what was done to me, if possible."

Sherlock dropped a kiss to her head. "Everything's going to be different now, isn't it?"

Natasha lifted her head and tipped it back to meet his eyes. "I think so, yeah," she confirmed quietly. "I... don't think I mind, as long as I have you."

"You have me." Sherlock replied. "You both do."

"I know," Natasha replied with a bit of a hopeful smile, and raising herself up on tiptoe, drew Sherlock down for a tender kiss.

Sherlock stopped moving and wrapped her up in his arms. He'd hold her as long as she wanted. Illogical love, but there it was. Because not only had he promised to love and protect this amazing and spectacular woman, that promise carried to their unborn child. He was terrified, and still processing, but as long as they had each other, the details were manageable.

Natasha pulled back to catch her breath and her eyes quickly found Sherlock's silver blue in the dim light, hesitant but tenderly loving in the face of uncertainty. Sherlock was right, everything was about to change. Everything was going to be different. Before, a family had been a statistical impossibility. A slim chance to rule all slim chances, but that was their forte. Sherlock and Natasha, they thrived on slim chances and statistical impossibilities. Unlikely and improbable were a challenge instead of a hindrance, and every time they emerged stronger, quicker, sharper, _better,_ because they had each other.

A family was just one more challenge in a long line of challenges they'd overcome already. Another slim chance. Another statistical impossibility. Together, it was a challenge they could undertake. Together, in a quiet room a thousand miles away from London; with a foreign city spreading out just beyond the window; with a new future ahead of them and years of history behind; in each others arms, vulnerable and scared but strong so long as they were tethered to each other; together, they were _home_.

* * *

 **A/N:** And we're done! Thanks for joining us on this wild ride! This story is very close to our hearts and we're a bit in love with this pairing. Obviously we've left it open for a sequel and will likely be posting that by the end of the year. Keep us on alert, if you'd like. And check out the Natlock stories we have between the two of us, the links are on our profile here. Thank you _so, so_ much for reading, reviewing, and favoriting our novel. Especially our reviewers, you all get cookies. We're chuffed to bits!

-Grace&Angie


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